


Wotan's Day

by filenotch



Category: Highlander: The Series, The Invisible Man (TV 2000), The X-Files
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-28 00:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 61,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/668421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/filenotch/pseuds/filenotch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 2023.  Methos, the oldest of the Immortals in Highlander, has been living as a corporate lawyer in Denver.  Alexander Krycek, the double-dealing ratboy of the X-Files, has been living there as an art dealer, running a gallery in Aurora, Colorado.  They are lovers, but they each know nothing about the other's past.  All Hell is about to break loose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2006 at the behest of [](http://akaspeedo.livejournal.com/profile)[**akaspeedo**](http://akaspeedo.livejournal.com/) for his donation to RAINN, which made me his [](http://sweetcharityvox.livejournal.com/profile)[**sweetcharityvox**](http://sweetcharityvox.livejournal.com/). Beta read by [](http://whitecrow2.livejournal.com/profile)[**whitecrow2**](http://whitecrow2.livejournal.com/), and an RL friend, without whom I wouldn't have finished it. Thank you, and thank you [](http://akaspeedo.livejournal.com/profile)[**akaspeedo**](http://akaspeedo.livejournal.com/) for making me write my second novel. Guest appearances in the story by [](http://britta54.livejournal.com/profile)[**britta54**](http://britta54.livejournal.com/) as Betty and [](http://akaspeedo.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://akaspeedo.livejournal.com/)**akaspeedo** as Michael Sanders.  
>  **Warning:** [added December 11, '07] These are not nice people, and they don't always do nice things.
> 
> All opening quotes in the chapters are from Robert A. Heinlein, who is one of the ten most influential writers in my life.

>   
>  _Anyone who clings to the historically untrue—and thoroughly immoral—doctrine 'that violence never settles anything' I would advise to conjure up the ghosts of Napoleon Bonaparte and of the Duke of Wellington and let them debate it. The ghost of Hitler could referee, and the jury might well be the Dodo, the Great Auk and the Passenger Pigeon. Violence, naked force, has settled more issues in history than has any other factor, and the contrary opinion is wishful thinking at its worst. Breeds that forget this basic truth have always paid for it with their lives and freedom._   
>  Starship Troopers   
> 

>   
>  There is only one dangerous animal, yet at times you're forced to pretend that he's as sweet and innocent as a cobra.    
>  Time Enough For Love   
> 

  
  


**Chapter 1.**

>   
>  An armed society is a polite society. Manners are good when one may have to back up his acts with his life.    
>  Beyond this Horizon   
> 

 

"Mister Bierce." Betty's voice greeted me with a long-suffering sigh that was about as genuine as the controlled grief and panic I was about to unleash on her. "No video," she said, "so I assume you're in the car, or too scruffy for decent people. What can I do for you after hours and on my own time?"

"It's Sasha--" I broke off and gulped air. "He left me." Let whoever was listening in chew on that.

"Oh, dear," was all she said. Then, when I didn't answer, "What do you need me to do?"

"I didn't want to leave you a phone mail, but I don't think I'll be in the office tomorrow." I said it all in a rush, as if I didn't trust my voice.

"The Bromfield case goes to court on Thursday," she said. I could tell she was trying not to upset me further, but feeling it her duty to keep me, as always, on track. "That's tomorrow. The counsel from Olympian Chemical has left you two messages."

"Heyn can take it," I sighed. Olympian Chemical was not my favorite in a roster of unpleasant corporate clients. I knew far more about their business practices than they might have liked, all in the name of good client relations, which can include material for blackmail, if needed. This case bothered me, though, and made me wonder whether I might have a moral compass after all.

"Heyn's awfully young. I'm not sure Mr. Mansard will approve."

"Heyn prepared most of the docs. It's not as complicated as it looks, and he needs the courtroom experience," I lied.

"You're making excuses, Mr. Bierce. Olympian made it clear to Mr. Mansard that they use the firm because of you."

I could see her looking at me over her glasses even though I'd turned off the video on the phone, and I couldn't stop the snort of laughter. Thankfully, she misinterpreted it.

"Are you going to be okay? Did something happen between you and Sasha?"

I kept in character and snapped at her. "Of course something happened, but I don't know what it is. He's just _gone_."

"Sorry, sorry. What can I do to help? Besides kill him?"

"Don't kill him. Just help Heyn deal with the Bromfield case. If he doesn't feel up to it, hold his hand through filing some kind of delaying motion, although it took long enough to get a trial date that Bromfield's lawyers will balk. Just don't let him do anything stupid."

Part of me hoped he would do something stupid. I had considered throwing the case on purpose, but had too much pride of work. Bromfield might be an ass trying to prove a point, but he had a point. If Olympian's prize engineered corn wanted to pollinate some back-to-the-land eccentric's field, I didn't see why he couldn't use the resulting seed. If he could stomach his own hypocrisy. They were suing him because they couldn't sue the wind or the bees. He was countersuing because they'd contaminated his organic, heirloom strains.

"You think Heyn can handle it? Your notes for your arguments reference legal precedent from Rome."

"And what's new about that? I do that all the time. It plays well to look like a scholar. Heyn can do it if you help him," I let just enough concern into my voice so as not to offend Betty. She hated kid gloves. "Don't overtax yourself, and don't let him make you work more than your usual hours."

"I'll take care of myself, Mr. Bierce. You do the same."

"I will Betty."

"And, Mr. Bierce?

"Yes."

"Sasha can be a real jerk sometimes. Maybe he just forgot to tell you he was going on a buying trip. He's done that before."

I let myself sound miserable. "I don't think so." I took a deep shuddering breath. "I'll call you when I know anything."

"Like when you'll be back?"

"Yes."

"For your information, you have accrued seven weeks and three days of unused vacation."

Betty had just given me some leeway.

I had insisted that we make accommodations required by the ADA after her long illness, and my firm had assumed it had to do with my political sensibilities as a minority (gay) that dealt with illness (AIDS) and the fact that my partner was also an amputee. They were wrong. Betty was an excellent assistant, and she was loyal. I smiled, remembering how she covered for me once when I went out the window of my private lavatory at the sensation of an Immortal presence.

So I said, "Oh?"

"I have to keep track," she said, mistaking my amused tone and embarrassed by having the detail of my vacation time on the top of her head.

I laughed aloud this time, with the right bit of ruefulness. "File for it."

It was a Wednesday, the eighteenth of October. I had been Mathias Bierce for just over fourteen years. For seven of those years, I had lived with Sasha Lisitsa.

Something had been off when I came in from work this afternoon. That his car was gone meant nothing, but the top of his bureau was an untidy mess and two drawers were left standing open, as if someone had been looking for something. I looked around more carefully. His suitcase was gone, along with sufficient clothing to fill it. He had packed toiletries, including my razor, but the most telling thing of all was that the case with his specialized prosthetics was gone. This was no sudden buying trip for his gallery.

He had never opened the case in front of me, but, while he was away on one of his trips, I had picked the lock, noting how he had left a hair across the hinge to mark if it had been opened. Inside were two arms, one that ended in odd tools, and another that I would swear was some kind of gun, although I couldn't see how to load it. I had replaced his hair with one of my own, and I wondered if he'd ever noticed.

If the case was gone, he was gone. Why?

I had opened the blinds and looked out onto our normal suburban street. Parked outside was an SUV with darkened windows. No one drove those things in 2023, and I cursed myself for inattention. The house across the street had recently sold and undergone some repairs. Looking back, I remembered that none of the work trucks had borne the names of the tradesmen.

Fourteen years, seven of those playing house with Sasha. I had gone soft.

I'd met him when Betty nagged me into attending an opening at Red Fox Gallery, claiming I needed a social life. I wore my suit, having come straight from the office, and although the tie was in my pocket, I knew I looked stiff. I spotted green eyes from across the room, smoky and framed by lashes I could see from twenty feet away. We exchanged a look, one of _those_ looks, but I lost their owner in the milling crowd.

Later, he ambushed me at the cheese board. "So," said a voice behind my left ear, "are you one of the dreaded _straight acting_?"

We blew each other in the men's room before we even traded names, and he tasted like butter from the desert.

Betty found us as we hunted for wine afterward. "Oh, Mr. Bierce. You've met Sasha."

I could feel myself blushing, but Sasha had an outright smirk on his face. I stammered, "Er, not formally, no." I glanced at him, saw his jaw and throat move slightly as I also opened my mouth to swallow air and his flavor again.

Betty seemed oblivious. "Then let me do the honors. Sasha Lisitsa, part owner of this gallery, meet Mathias Bierce, my boss."

"So you're the one she's been talking about?" Sasha's eyebrows went up, and I realized that the color had been a trick of the light. His eyes were as hazel as my own.

I looked at Betty.

"Oh, all good, Mr. Bierce."

"She says you're the laziest and most brilliant lawyer she's ever worked for."

I looked at Betty again. "What about him?" I indicated Sasha with my wine glass.

"He's a mysterious rascal who knows too well how handsome he is. In fact," she began, but Sasha interrupted.

"Why Betty, should I tell him what you do in your off hours? Do the letters C and P mean anything? Did you know she still obsesses over a long-cancelled TV show, imagining two of the male leads--"

She picked up his left hand to interrupt him. "I should rap you across the knuckles."

"Go ahead," he said, flexing the fingers outward. "I won't feel it."

Only then did I realize the hand was a prosthetic.

I shook myself out of that memory and into another, of how I had stripped out of my suit and not bothered to hang it. It appeared Sasha was good at sudden departures, but so was I. I kept a duffle bag packed, stashed in the back of my closet. Sasha had looked through it several times over the years, but he’d never asked about it, or the three sets of identification and credit cards, or the cell phones I upgraded every two years. He had his secrets, and I had mine, and in seven years we had never asked.

The swords had gone into my fencing bag, and it all went into the back of the Jag. I hit the garage door opener and was now driving away from a carefully built life, a law partnership, and the house that had always felt too big, even after Sasha moved in. The Bromfield case could go fuck itself. Olympian Chemical could crush a genetic Luddite without my help.

I told the phone to connect to Sasha's mobile, not expecting an answer. His phone was most likely in a dumpster somewhere, but it was worth a shot. Whoever was responsible for the black SUV that had spooked Sasha would expect the panicked lover to try to call.

"This is Alexander Danavitch Lisitsa," said the recorded voice. I had never bought the name. The faint accent could come and go, and a word like fox would never be a real Russian surname.

"This will no longer be a valid number for me." No surprises there. "If you need assistance at Red Fox Gallery, please call my partner Lilly Jones at…." I tuned out as Sasha's voice rattled off the familiar number. I was about to end the call, when the message continued. "If this is Matty… Mathias, I'm sorry. You should know by now I have a big red rock for a heart. No, I'm not going off to OD somewhere. I'll miss you, but… but there's someone else." I laughed aloud at the hitch in Sasha's voice. The timing was as perfect as the false sentiment, and the excuse excellent for anyone who might be listening. I had to play the message again to hear the last sentence. "Don't look for me."

I disconnected without leaving a phone mail. The message complicated things because in it, Sasha had told me where he was going and asked me to follow. I off put that decision. There were plenty of options, including ignoring him and moving on to one of the other identities in the gym bag.

I glanced at my phone. What would the jilted lover do next? I put in a pro forma call to Lilly Jones at Sasha's gallery. He was not on a scheduled buying trip, and was something wrong, Matty? I hung up without answering. I called my financial manager to find out if Sasha had cashed out any of our few joint assets, and was surprised to find that he had not. I couldn't decide who to call next. None of our friends were particularly close. Sasha and I had needed little more than each other, and I couldn't think who Mathias Bierce would confide in when his lover of seven years suddenly left.

Knowing that I would probably regret it, I followed his lead, and took the highway south.

I called Sasha's phone again. "This will no longer be a valid number for me." Yes, yes. "If this is Matty… Mathias, I'm sorry. You should know by now I have a big red rock for a heart." Abandoned on my dresser was a heart shaped rock from a trip we took last year to Sedona, Arizona, ostensibly on an art buying tour. Most of the art was high-grade tourist tripe, and I had my suspicions about his real purpose. So, he'd gone south and west.

"No, I'm not going off to OD somewhere." That was the key. Opposite day. It was a stupid lover's game, a way to make outrageous personal remarks and claim it was opposite day, eventually shortened to OD, and further used as a private code when we were in public. I think he'd once confessed it coming from a cartoon, but the reference was lost on me. "I'll miss you, but… but there's someone else." I doubted either was true. "Don't look for me." He wanted me to come, but why?

I composed myself to leave an answer for whoever might be tracking this. "Sasha, damn it!" I started, then broke off, not knowing exactly what to say. I'd done enough stupid things when someone dumped me. It had been a few centuries, but I could remember how it felt, so I said, "I'm going to Vegas, you shit, and I'm going to burn off all the money we saved together on showgirls. If they still have them. Or showboys," I laughed, a little too hysterically. "If you can have a mid-life crisis, so can I. Whoever you've found, I hope you enjoy him! And I hope he dumps you."

And again, let whoever was listening in chew on that. And then I laughed at myself. Vegas? Not exactly queer paradise.

The mid-life crisis idea might distract whoever was listening. Sasha was over fifty, though he claimed forty-five, and his body was a map of scars less obvious than the missing left arm. He wore long sleeves to cover more than the prosthetic. There were deep, old wounds from bullets and surgery on his right arm and other scars from bullets, knives, and hazards that could tear flesh, but the most interesting mark was the circle in the middle of his forehead. Mostly he kept a lock of hair over it, but as his hairline receded, that became harder to do. I had asked him about it once. "Kind of big for an acne scar, huh?" was all he would say.

I checked the mirror to see if anyone was following. There was nothing obvious, and the radar panel only showed blips and vehicle sizes, and there wasn't much to tell from the pattern of traffic. The lack of red warning blips told me that they hadn't been stupid enough to take an SUV on the highway. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but if they were good, would I see them? They couldn't be that good. They'd been clumsy enough to spook Sasha. And me.

Unless they meant to.

And why the hell was I planning to follow him? To be honest, I was bored. Sasha Lisitsa had been the one point of curiosity in Mathias Bierce's life. Really, the only good thing about being Bierce was that he had financial means and a quiet life, with Sasha as a bright distraction.

The first time we slept together--

~~~~~

He looked at me over his wine glass, and I could see in his eyes and body language the confidence of a young man who knows he is beautiful. I called him on it.

"Aren't you a little grizzled to be playing the coquette?"

His eyes widened. "It doesn't work on you?"

"No."

"I thought all the young men fell for my boyish charm." He spoke with irony. I realized he was quite conscious that his RFID chip would have called the stock boys to pull him off the shelf at the WalMart years ago.

"I'm not as young as you think," I said.

"It's not the years, it's the mileage?" he asked, quoting an old movie.

It was the first time we'd seen each other since the opening at his gallery. Over dinner he had only asked me questions about my current life, about the law firm and Betty, and what I thought of the art at the show. We agreed on which pieces were crap that would sell to someone who wanted a piece to match the couch.

He only brought up my history as an entrée to making the pass, "Betty says you were born in 1989, and you made partner this year. That means you're only twenty-seven." He leaned over my plate, and put his face very close to mine. "That's the mark of a driven man. Are you as driven in bed? What I really want to know is when I get to fuck you."

I narrowed my eyes in defense and challenge. "Who says you get to be on top?"

"Who said anything about being on top?" He leaned back, and gave, clothed, the impression that he was waiting for me to straddle and ride him. It didn't seem like a bad suggestion. For someone pushing fifty, he looked pretty damn good.

"Are you always like this?" I asked, hoping the answer was yes.

He just smiled, those eyes telling me everything and nothing.

There was the momentary temptation to drag him to the WC and repeat our first encounter, but we went back to my house, neatly hung our coats in the foyer closet, and went through the ritual of the offered drink. He refused, politely.

"Drink to me only with thine eyes?" I asked in a fit of nervousness, and he did, looking at me with a smoldering intensity that would have been comic had it not been such a turn on. He closed the distance between us and put two fingers between the buttons of my shirt, reaching for a nipple that the close tuck of cloth would not let him reach.

I should have known we'd end up in bed that first night, but I had gone with my usual weapons. Undressing in front of him would require explanations I did not want to give, but a man with a prosthesis might have his own issues about disrobing. I took his hand off my chest and used it to lead him to the bedroom. I excused myself to the bathroom, took off my shirt, and unstrapped the forearm sheath of the PlaSteel knife. The ceramic and polysomethingorother blade was invisible to metal detectors and chemosensors. I pulled the .22 out of the back holster and removed it as well, then slipped the weapons between the last two towels in the stack. The calf sheath and the blade it held followed. I slipped my shirt back on, unbuttoned, shucked my shoes and socks, and checked the mirror. I was prepared to emerge looking like a man who wanted sex, which would not tax my acting ability in the least. I had the Ivanhoe under the bed and a .38 in the nightstand, just in case anything went wrong.

He was already half-naked, too, shirt off, arm laid on a chair in the corner. It had been almost a century since I'd been with anyone that had more than trivial imperfections. Modern medicine lowered the percentage. The stump, and I couldn't help but look, ended in a very modern interface for his arm, clamps inlaid in the skin so that he wouldn't need the straps of cruder prosthetics. His face held challenge, and his body more scars. There was the impression of a gun holster on his other shoulder, and I thought that this was going to be fun in more ways than I had anticipated. I put my hand in the middle of his chest and knocked him back onto the bed.

We were direct about our wants. Gentleness would come later.

Later he would move in, and we would dress in front of each other on a typical weekday morning, strapping on our weapons without comment. Later he would give me a replica of the Ivanhoe in PlaSteel, and I would never ask him how he had access to custom fabrication of restricted military materials. Later I would find myself deep in a love never mentioned.

Betty, seeing only the last part, would tell us how cute we were together.

Cute like snakes, I thought, looking at Sasha. Cute like tigers.

~~~~~

Nothing was out of the ordinary in rearview or radar when I checked again. I admonished myself again to stay focused. It was too easy to get lost in memory. Music might be the answer, but I was bored with Mathias Bierce's tastes. I thought about making some more phone calls, but I realized it was time to make a pit stop. At the next rest area I pulled off the highway, noting the cars that exited after me, and faces and clothes of the drivers.

I took my time in the men's room. When I emerged, I did not see any of them, and when I reached the parking lot, their cars were gone. In looking for their cars, I neglected to look at my own until after I hit the remote start. The black Jag immediately moved, reversing from the parking place. My first thought was to run after it, as if it had taken on a life of its own. Better sense told me to go back into the rest area and call Betty for a ride home to regroup, replace the identification, and craft a better exit plan.

I turned, but was halted mid-step by the sight of someone who looked too much like my old friend Duncan MacLeod. It wasn't him, because there was no Immortal signature, no buzz in the back of my brain, but the build and the features were so close as to make me hesitate. He moved toward me, staring at me, then past me, and I glanced back to see my car pulling up next to us. I cursed my decision for privacy windows, since I had no idea how many were in the Jag besides the driver. The man stepped behind me and opened the rear door on the passenger side looking like a bodyguard, a thug. He wore MacLeod's face, but he had none of his presence, in both senses of the word.

The options were to enter the car and take the offered seat, make a scene, or shoot someone. I chose the path of least resistance and slid into the back seat beside a very old man who was crisply dressed. I couldn't see more than the nearly bald head of the driver. The body guard took the front passenger seat, and turned enough to hold a gun on me as the driver took the car to the on-ramp.

"Please pardon the intrusion," the old man said in an accent only money could buy. "We will continue on your present course, so that you will not lose much travel time, but we have a few questions for you." We merged back on to the highway, still heading south toward Albuquerque.

I knew that to stay in character I should look more frightened than I did, so I took a deep, trembling breath. "Whatever you say, but please, can he put that thing away?"

"Gohlehm, I don't think you need to keep it aimed, but do keep it ready."

"Yes sir." The guard turned back around.

"Thank you," I said with visible relief, glancing at the guard. Some of the relief was genuine, because I was having a difficult time looking at MacLeod's face on a stranger. The name sounded Hebrew, almost. Although the pronunciation was off, it had to be a reference to the myth of the golem, the created being that could be made and animated by a rabbi. As he turned to face the front, I saw he wore a Celtic knot to hold back long hair. That could not be a coincidence, although MacLeod had cut his hair decades ago. I asked, "What could you possibly want from me? Is this about the Bromfield case?"

"Oh, no," said the old man with a condescending chuckle. "Sherry?" he asked, producing a decanter and two glasses from a case near his feet.

 

 

***

[bonus prequel nap story](http://amireal.livejournal.com/470224.html?thread=3124688) in [](http://amireal.livejournal.com/profile)[**amireal**](http://amireal.livejournal.com/)'s Nap Day entry.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year is 2023. Methos, Mathias Bierce, has been living as a corporate lawyer in Denver for many years. His partner for most of those years has been a one-armed art dealer named Sasha Lisitsa. Methos has been kidnapped in his own car by an old man guarded by the spitting image of Duncan MacLeod. Questioning begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not intend to include Invisible Man fandom in this story, but Bobby Hobbes showed up, and wouldn't stop talking.

>   
>  _Don't ever become a pessimist, Ira; a pessimist is correct oftener than an optimist, but an optimist has more fun--and neither can stop the march of events._   
>  Time Enough For Love   
> 

 

"There are a great many things I would like to know," said the old man, handing me a crystal stem, "but we'll settle first for the whereabouts of Alexander Krycek."

"I can't help you. I've never heard of him." I sipped the sherry, unsurprised to recognize quality even Mathias Bierce could barely afford.

"Oh, perhaps not by that name. Don't be dense, Mr. Bierce. No one earns simultaneous law and MBA degrees from Harvard at the age of twenty-three by being dense."

I gave my voice the anger it should have. "The only Alexander I know is Sasha, and his name isn't Krycek."

"Yes, Sasha."

"You're telling me Sasha is this Alexander Krycek?"

His answer was a look, one eyebrow slightly raised, then he said, "He's been using the name Lisitsa."

I looked at the old man for several moments, as if coming to terms with new information and feeling a sense of misplaced trust. "What proof do you have that Sasha is your Krycek? Seven years, and I can't imagine he never told me his real name," I said, and turned to the window pretending to gather control. In the reflection I watched the old man next to me. He smiled slightly, a mere curve of his patrician mouth.

"That's not so long for you, is it?"

"It's a fifth of my life," I said. These were the kinds of numbers I kept in my head. Mathias Bierce had been born in 1989. He was thirty-four.

"Oh, I think not, Mr. Pierson."

I pretended I had misheard Pierson for Bierce, did the math in my head and said, "All right. Twenty point six percent if you round up the second decimal place."

"Adam," said the old man, as if admonishing a fibbing child, "you never told _Sasha_ your real name, did you?"

I very much doubted the old man knew my real name, and I wasn't going to play into his hand. I got angry. "Look, you seem to have me confused with someone else." It was time to add an edge of histrionic faggot. I had no idea how this would play out, and it wouldn't hurt to have a little fun with it. "Just get out of my car and leave me alone. There can't be anything you want from me. Sasha's gone and I don't know where he is. He didn't leave a note, the bastard!"

The old man ignored my outburst. "Oh, but he did communicate with you. Call his cell phone."

"What?" I said. "If you listened to his message, you know. He's left me for someone else. Would you please pass the salt? I don't think this wound hurts enough."

He surprised me by chuckling. I looked affronted.

"Gohlehm, hand Mr. Bierce his phone."

Gohlehm reached back with his left hand without turning around. I took the phone from him and said, "Video on. Call Sasha." I was curious as to whether there had been a visual with the audio message. It startled me to hear a ring in the car, just out of synch with the ringing on my own phone.

I looked at the old man, who inclined his head. "We found it in a trash can several exits back."

After a few more rings the call went to phone mail, and the video came on. Sasha looked out from the small screen. For the first moments of the message, I turned the phone toward the old man, who nodded with some satisfaction. Instead of turning the phone off, I watched the message play out, looking for something in Sasha's demeanor to give me further clues as to what this was all about.

When the message turned personal, the recorded Sasha lifted his chin as if in guilty defiance. I couldn't help but admire the acting, and had to remind myself to respond appropriately. "If this is Matty... Mathias, I'm sor--." I thumbed the phone off and said, "No you're not." The vehemence wasn't feigned. It was Sasha who had gotten me into this spot. No one in black SUVs should be looking for me.

"Now, now," said the old man. "I think we should play the entire message."

"Why? To watch me suffer?"

"Indulge me."

"Whatever for? I'm the one held hostage in my own car!" Indignant, high priced lawyer, somewhat naïve, with a recently broken heart--that was what I had to channel, and I hadn't constructed Mathias Bierce to have any experience that would let him handle this kind of situation. Of course, Mathias Bierce would not be heavily armed, which I hoped they would assume as well. I didn't know what assumptions they might make, however, if they thought I was also Adam Pierson.

"Gohlehm," the old man said.

The guard turned, aiming the gun squarely at my face.

"All right, all right," I said. "Look, I wish I understood what you wanted from me. I mean, I know Sasha may have had some less than perfectly legal imports, but it was art for heaven's sake, not state secrets!"

"Are you so sure?"

My surprise was almost genuine.

"Indulge me, please," said the old man, again, indicating the phone with a nod.

They went through the farce again, and I let genuine emotions play over my face along with the manufactured ones. I was, in truth, not happy about the turn of events, and it was easy to let that annoyance look like the grief of a jilted lover. Despite the annoyance, I still liked looking at Sasha's face, from the gray at the temples to the slight sag at the jowls that had developed over our years together. Sasha had been aging well.

"What does he mean about not going off to OD somewhere?" the old man asked.

I sighed, thinking fast. "Sasha told me he once had a drug problem and a problem with suicidal thoughts."

"I see," he said, but his tone implied disbelief. "Our analysis indicated that the message contains code phrases."

"What?" I said, with all the incredulity I could muster. "Are you trying to tell me he was some kind of spy? That you think I’m--"

The old man raised a hand to cut me off. "You listened to it three times before you left a message."

I gave him the look I reserved for dense paralegals, "I didn't know what to say. Look, what is this all about? What," I started, then glanced at the gun pointing at me, avoiding looking at the guard in the front seat, and let myself slouch in defeat. "What do you want to know?"

The old man smiled and patted my hand, then signaled to the guard to lower the gun. "How did you meet Alexander?"

"I sucked him off in the bathroom of his gallery."

The old man blinked, and the driver gave a single snort. I looked at the driver for the first time. He wore gloves and had a line of short silver hair around the base of his skull. His eyes in the mirror were brown, lined with age. Pushing seventy, I thought, or just past it.

"You asked," I said. "It was at an art opening. After that, my secretary introduced us."

"Yes. Betty."

"If you know so much about me, why are you asking questions?" I wanted him to ask better questions, ones that would help me understand what the hell I was dealing with.

"We want to hear your perspective on your... lover." The old man put distaste into the word. An old man, I thought, with old-fashioned mores.

"I don't have much perspective at the moment, and maybe if you told me what you were looking for, I could be of more help." I sipped the sherry and examined the glass. The crystal was cut, but not over-decorated. I pinged it with a fingernail, tapping several times as if in a nervous gesture. It was genuine stuff.

"Did Sasha travel much?"

"At least two or three times a month. Why?"

"I'm asking the questions. Did he tell you where he was going?"

"I didn't ask."

"Weren't you curious?"

"Not really. It got hard to keep track, and buying trips aren't exactly my sort of thing. I had plenty of my own work to do."

"Didn't you think it odd that he went on so many buying trips, but the gallery only mounted a show a month?"

"What century were you born in?" Scorn of youth for the aged, plus anger at being held hostage: Check. "More than half his business is internet sales."

"Ever ask him how he lost his arm?"

"No."

"Weren't you curious?"

"Of course, but unlike some I could mention, I leave other people's privacy intact."

"Would you like to know where he got the scar on his forehead?"

"It's none of my business." I drained the sherry, thinking this was going nowhere, and then the old man surprised me.

"He was shot at point blank range by a high ranking official in what used to be called the FBI."

I believed him, but I said, "And you expect me to buy that? Because last time I heard, head wounds were fatal if not debilitating."

"His skull was modified long ago, Mr. Bierce, against such hazards of his job."

Now we were getting somewhere. "Next you're going to tell me that he was once a member of the Uncannny X-men."

The driver snorted again, but the old man said, "Pardon me?"

"It was a comic book, boss," said the driver in an accent that was part Jersey, part Brooklyn, and probably fake. "Turn of the century stuff, movies, and all that. They had a character called Wolverine who had adamantium fused to his skeleton. Tough guy to kill."

The old man cut him off. "That's enough, Mr. Hobbes." He turned to me. I glanced out the window, appearing nervous and off balance, twirling the crystal stem in my fingers. "Would you care for more?" he asked. I suddenly wondered if he were drugging me, but could feel no direct effects.

"Might as well, if you're not going to give me back my car any time soon." I held out the glass, and as he filled it, I asked, "Anything else you want to tell me about Sasha? Like, where he is?"

"I think you know where he is, Mr. Bierce, or at least where he's going. I think he told you in his phone message. Where do you find red rocks?"

"Sedona," I answered without thinking, and then I did think. There were some very good truth serums available these days, ones that had no other side effects. I dropped the act consciously before I could blow my cover more. "But you knew that, didn't you?"

"Mr. Hobbes is quite talented in analysis of crude codes."

"So why ask me? You just wanted to confirm what you knew."

"And extend it. We know where, but we don't know why."

"I don't know why." It was the truth. If he'd drugged me, he had to know I couldn't lie.

In the background, my brain had been making plans. With this truth serum in me, I could not afford to sit and answer questions.

"Hmm." The old man thought for a moment, and decided to take a different tack. "What is your name?"

"What's a name?" I said, testing to see if I could get around the impulse to answer. It seemed I could.

"What do you call yourself?"

"Mathias Bierce. What do you call yourself?"

He didn't deign to answer. "What is your true name?" he said. "What do you call yourself in between the public names?"

"Methos," I said. He had asked too well for me to counter.

"How old are you?"

"I don't know."

The old man raised his eyebrows at that. "What is the minimum age you could be, given your memories?"

"Five thousand years. How old are you?"

He ignored my question and closed his eyes, and I realized my answer wounded him. How could it not? He was in his decline, eighty-five or ninety years old, and here I sat unable to lie, telling him that I looked as I do after five millennia. I glanced at the eyes of the driver, who was watching me in the rearview. He shook his head and returned his attention to the road.

The old man looked at me thoughtfully. "Would I know you by another name? What name from history would I best recognize?"

The answer came with the physical sensation of truth erupting from behind my teeth. "Death."

I smiled as the word broke through, then snapped the cup off the crystal stem, and with my left hand drove the stem into his right eye. It shattered before it could go through the bone, preventing a killing stroke. I felt the searing pain of the bullet in my shoulder before I heard the gunshot. Left shoulder, which was good, because I was already reaching behind myself to the back holster, drawing my gun on Gholehm, firing before I let myself see his face, MacLeod's face. The exit wound splattered brains and blood on half the windshield as his gun fell, the hot barrel glancing off my leg before it hit the floor. I distantly heard the driver curse through the old man's scream of pain, and felt the car swerve as he regained control.

"I believe I asked you a question," I said to the old man. My shoulder hurt like hell, even though healing had begun. It would be little a while before I could use the arm. "What is your name?"

He was tough. He brought his hand up to his face, covering his eye and breathing through the pain. "Why are you following Krycek?"

"I'm bored," I answered, "and I didn't like the idea of having people occupying the house across the street only to spy on my husband and myself." It surprised me to hear the word husband out of my mouth. I suppose that was how I felt about Sasha, even though the most we'd ever talked about our relationship was an acknowledgement that he was living with me anyway, so he might as well give up the apartment. The truth serum worked at all levels, it seemed. "Were they yours?"

"What?"

"The set up across the street. The black SUVs, the bugs in the house."

The driver said, "Only the feds still use SUVs."

"No," the old man agreed, "there were not ours."

"So who are you?"

"The proper question might be 'what.' What are you?"

"Immortal," I answered, not able to dodge the question, even though it wasn't directed toward me.

"I suspected as much." He moved his hand away from the wound. The eye socket was a bloody mess with the base of the stemware sticking out like a bizarre robot eye.

"So what are you?" I asked.

"Dead," he answered, and two seconds later he slumped forward, blood trickling down his chin.

"The old suicide tooth," said the driver nonchalantly. "So, it's just you and me. If you're immortal, then I guess it won't matter to you if you kill me and I crash the car. Of course, you'd have a bit of explaining to do. You really can't die?"

"I can die, it's just not easy," I said, managing not to give him the full answer. Damn this drug. "How long will the truth serum last?"

"Well, my friend, that depends on your physiology, which might be unique given this immortality thing, but if you were a normal Joe, I'd say about forty-five more minutes. So, what are you going to do?"

"I don't know." I couldn't kill him while I was still under the drug's influence. He was right, in that the car would crash and I would have a lot to explain when the police arrived. It wouldn't do to be subject to official questioning while compelled to tell the truth. "Mr. Hobbes, is it?"

"Bobby Hobbes. Pleased to meet you, Mr. ah--"

"Bierce. Bierce will do." I aimed the gun at him. "What will you do now?"

"Drive, Mr. Bierce. I will drive. Me? I'm just a driver. You don't need that thing."

I sat back, gun ready but not aimed, trying to plan further. I still had the problem of getting out of this. I no longer wanted the car, not with its grisly cargo, but I would need the IDs and the bags in the back.

"Who do you work for?"

"You, now, it seems."

"What about the old man? Who was he?"

"I have no idea. I'm used to working for people without names, Mr. Bierce."

"Government agent?"

"Not any more. I have not knowingly worked for a government in twenty years."

I could tell he wanted me to ask why. I declined the bait. "How long did you work for him?"

"Eh, about fifteen years."

He was lying, but I asked, "Why are you answering my questions?"

"Why are you asking them?"

"So I can decide whether or not to kill you." That was an easy truth.

"See, and that's why I'm answering them, so as to convince you that you don't need to kill me."

I rolled my shoulder. It was almost healed. "How long did you work for him? Truth, this time."

"Nine years, eight months and two days, and let me tell you it's been a long strange trip. I don't even have trouble believing you are five thousand years old. When I first started working for him, I thought I was having trouble with my medications, you know, seeing things, because I can get a little delusional. It used to just be paranoia and obsession, but with time, well, anyway. I guess after having worked with a guy who could turn invisible, you'd think nothing could phase me, but the old man was into some very strange stuff, my friend."

"What kind of stuff?"

"Oh, aliens, mostly."

His tone was so casual that I knew he believed it.

"What about that guy, Gholehm? How long has he been around."?

"My former employer picked him up from the labs last week. Had him specially made. They tried to clone the original, but it never worked. Something about the nuclear transfer always went wrong. I heard the techs say something weird was happening. So, they made a blank and did plastic surgery."

"What do you mean _clone_?" That might explain the name. In a way, the thing had been a golem. "I thought they still couldn't get it to work for humans using adult cells."

"That's what they tell the public. He knows guys that have been doing it for thirty years, and they couldn't make this one work. Something about the eggs reverting to whatever cell type the nucleus came from, or something. Biotech isn't exactly my thing, so I could be getting it wrong, but they were kind of creeped out about it."

"Who were they trying to clone?"

"Some guy named MacLeod. You know him?"

"Yes." I asked my question before I could react to the name. "Did he tell you why?"

"I'm just a driver, Mr. Bierce. He didn't tell me much. What was MacLeod to you?"

 _A pain in the ass with a permalink in my brain_ , I thought, remembering the aftermath of a shared Quickening. Then I realized I no longer felt compelled to answer. My physiology had thrown off the drug early. I asked, "If you're just the driver, why would he use you to analyze the phone message?"

For the first time, Hobbes was quiet. I reached past the body of the old man for the decanter of sherry. I picked up the cup I had broken off the stemware and poured a glass. "Is the sherry drugged, or was it just my glass?"

Hobbes didn't answer. I drank, then waited a few minutes. "Ask me a question."

The driver said nothing, so I cocked the gun with my left hand, and put it to Hobbes' head. "Ask me a question."

"Okay. What's your favorite color?"

I tried to lie and say blue, but heard myself say, "Red." So it was the sherry. I wondered if the old man was immune, or whether I'd failed to note whether he actually drank. I put the gun aside long enough to pour another glass, and leaned forward. I put the cup to Hobbes' lips, the gun to the base of his skull, and said, "Drink."

Hobbes tried to fake it, spilling sherry down his chin. "Don't," I warned.

"Would you really kill me right now as I'm driving?"

"Yes," I said with no hesitation. "Drink. Remember, I'm on truth serum. I can't lie. Ask me again."

"Will you kill me?"

"I still don't know. That's a different question. Drink."

Hobbes drank. I sat back and waited.

"Why did the old man want to clone MacLeod?"

"Bait for you. But Krycek took off sooner than expected, and we didn't expect you to follow him. What's MacLeod to you?"

"An old friend." Damn, I thought, I'm going to have to play this stupid game. It wasn’t stupid on his part. I ask one, he asks one. Maybe I could learn from what he asked. "Why me? Bait for what?"

"Well, they were going to use you to get to Krycek, but when they started researching you, it seemed you were older than you looked. Do you really not know about Krycek?"

"No," I answered, which was truthful. I hadn't known his name. I had of course known he was something more than an art dealer in the way he handled weaponry, in the specialized arms I had found in that case. On the pistol range, he was the better shot. That told me quite a bit. "What is Krycek?"

"Near as I can tell he used to be an assassin and the kind of guy you brought in for the difficult jobs. Hard to control, though. I used to be like that, only not quite like that. What about you, my friend? I mean you handled yourself pretty well here, and that bit with the glass was pretty inspired, let me tell you."

He had babbled past the question, so I did not feel the need to answer. "Why did he want to get to Sasha?"

"You mean Krycek? Bring him back into the fold, I suspect. No one likes a guy like him to be out on his own. They like a good leash, and he'd slipped his for fifteen years or more, or so they tell me. What about you?" he asked again. "Soldier? Spy? What?"

"Yes," I said. I had been all those things, including the what. "What would he have done with Sasha once he had him?"

"Well, if he didn't promise to be a good boy, he was going to set up a little torture scene, with you and the Gholehm as the stars of the show. If that didn't work, he was going to kill him, which is not an easy thing to do. I mean, you heard about the head shot. It knocked him for a loop for a few weeks, but he was fine." He paused, then asked his question, "What are your loyalties?"

"I don't have any. Why did you work for the old man?"

"I didn't care any more. Are you going to kill me?"

That was the answer I needed. I didn't know what he no longer cared about, but that didn't matter. He had cared about something once.

"I still don't know," I answered, because I was not sure. Ninety-nine percent sure, but not entirely. "Where is the old man's base of operations?"

"Washington. You're not even loyal to Sasha?"

"I never cheated on him. What are your loyalties?"

His answer was slower than the truth serum should have allowed. "I am loyal to a dead man." Then he said, "Mere avoidance of sex with other people isn't loyalty, Mr. Bierce."

"I know," I said, before he could ask another question. "Who is this dead man?"

"I had a partner. Not that kind of partner," he said, "not like you and that guy Krycek."

"The one who could turn invisible?"

"Yeah. He'd been modified in a government experiment."

"What happened to him?"

"When the experiment finally failed, they killed him, and told me later. They put him down like a dog."

I was opening an old wound on Mr. Hobbes, but I did not show my pleasure at being handed such an excellent leverage point. "You wanted to be the one to do it?"

"Damn straight," he whispered. "It's the kind of thing you do for your partner. Ever had to put down a pet, Mr. Bierce?"

I thought of Silas, and then back to my slave Kaithos, to other slaves I had been fond of, but had to destroy for illness, or for incorrigible behavior. "Yes."

"You take him in to the vet for the shot, you tell him he's a good dog, and you pet him." I could see Kaithos, his back and legs broken in a chariot race. I had fed him the juice of poppies, kissed him and soothed him as best I could, while I took my knife and slit the femoral artery, down where he could no longer feel. On that day, Death was kind.

"They didn't give you that."

"No, my friend, they did not."

"Mr. Hobbes," I said, several things clicking into place, "what did you do to them?"

"Mr. Bierce, I killed them all."

I kept my smile off my face. Things were definitely looking up.


	3. Wotan's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Methos follows Krycek south, and we find out that Mulder is on the case.

**Chapter 3**

>   
>  _Sin lies only in hurting other people unnecessarily. All other "sins" are invented nonsense. (Hurting yourself is not sinful--just stupid.)_   
>  Time Enough for Love   
> 

 

"And now you work for men like that? Men who would _torture_ me to put their dog back on the leash?"

Hobbes did not answer, despite the truth serum, or perhaps because of it. He could not lie to himself, and if I had judged him correctly, he was about to have a very uncomfortable set of realizations.

I let him think for a minute or two.

"And what would your partner think of your current work situation?"

"He would probably kill me, like a rabid dog." Hobbes' voice was quiet.

"Who do you work for?"

"You, if you want me."

Damn. I had to ask more precisely. "Who did you work for? What was the old man?"

"He was part of a consortium. Old men, shady dealings."

"Aliens?" I tried to keep the sneer of disbelief out of my tone.

"Yeah. Other stuff, too."

I took a breath, thinking. The car stank of sherry, blood, and fouler smells that indicated the final lapse of reflex common to most corpses.

"Was anyone else working with the old man trying to get Krycek?"

"I don't think so, but they usually had more than one operation for any goal. Smart strategy, that, but not always good tactics unless the two teams are aware of each other, coordinated, like. Sometimes these guys were so tight, their ass wouldn't tell their hand it had just taken a dump, if it thought it could get away with not getting wiped."

"Mr. Hobbes," I said, putting aside the colorful image and returning to my immediate needs, "will you help me?"

"Yes."

"I need the contents of the trunk, and I need this car so completely wrecked that the authorities will never identify the bodies. Can you do that?'

"Yes. That's the beauty of the hybrids, Mr. Bierce. All that lovely battery acid, plus the chance for explosion."

"Spoken like a true professional."

"That I am, sir. That I am," he said.

"Do you want to live or die?"

"Live," he said, "but I got no right."

The truth serum was disrupting all of his necessary self-deceptions. My task now was to make sure he channeled his guilt into helping me. Whether he lived or died, the memory of his dead partner would keep him from helping his former employers again.

"That is entirely your decision, then."

We were silent for a few miles, and he slowed to take the next exit.

"I'll let you off here, then go wreck the car. If I do it right, the batteries for the hybrid will rupture and destroy the bodies."

"And you, Mr. Hobbes, what do you choose?"

"Blaze of glory, my friend. Blaze of glory. Christians say an act of redemption at the end can make up for a life of sin."

"You are not a Christian," I said as he took the exit.

"No, sir, I am not, but they sometimes have interesting ideas."

There was a hotel, and he pulled into a parking space.

"Can I trust you, Mr. Hobbes?"

"No," he answered automatically. "I mean, in this case, yes."

It took a few minutes of carefully stated questions, which made Mr. Hobbes impatient, but I left the car confident that he would destroy it thoroughly, and perhaps himself as well. I made him drink more of the sherry to make sure he could not retreat into his self-delusions, and bade him good luck.

I retrieved my bags from the trunk, changed my shirt from the bloody and torn mess, then slapped the lid twice after I closed it. I watched my car pull away, and back to the highway.

Time for the next role. I took a set of identification and a new cell phone out of the gym bag. Paul Adamson, I decided, had just been dumped out of his girlfriend's car after an argument. I memorized the Chicago address, the fact that I was now twenty-eight, and decided I was a part of the great over-educated and underemployed class. Paul was constructed as if his parents had money, and thus the credit rating.

I took a room, and arranged a rental car for the next day, acting spoiled and jilted and annoyed that the cheesy hotel lounge was the best entertainment available.

~~~~~

_"Sir?"_

_Mulder looked up. It was one of the young agents, standing at the door to his office, shifting nervously and adjusting the collar of her pantsuit. Nield. "We have a report on the cell phones. They separated, each heading south out of Denver, joined up again, and now we've lost the signal."_

_"Which means what?"_

_"We think that Krycek and his accomplice were traveling together, and realized the phones could be used to track them."_

_"Don't state the obvious. What do you think?"_

_"Uh, sir?"_

_"Just because the phones traveled together, Agent Nield, don't assume their owners did. Did anyone decode Krycek's message?"_

_The young woman, blinked. "Sir?"_

_Mulder sighed. Where did they find them this naive? There was something familiar about her, but he couldn't imagine where he'd met her. Perhaps it was the blond All-American prettiness. "You think he really left his comfortable life because he met someone else? You really think Bierce believes it? Does someone like Bierce dump a high-profile litigation to go to Las Vegas, ever? Is the best route to Las Vegas heading south of Denver? No, I think our lawyer friend is about as much what he seems as Sasha Lisitsa was. The clumsy surveillance you set up before I arrived tipped them off. Get me everything you've compiled on Mathias Bierce, and find someone who knew him before college. High school teacher, the kid who used to beat him up on the playground, anything."_

_He rubbed his eyes under his glasses, not watching her leave. Alexander Danavitch Lisitsa. Alexander, family of Dana, Fox. How annoying could the man be? The rat put his and his wife's names in his own current_ nom de guerre _, although the phrase_ nom de l'art _probably applied better, given Krycek's most recent cover._

And just how involved was Bierce? Up until they flushed him along with Krycek, Mulder had thought he was what he seemed--a young corporate lawyer with bad taste in men, on the rise in a middle American city.

Why the hell had he let Skinner talk him into coming out of retirement?

"If anyone can profile this guy, it's you," they had said, calling him to describe a string of deaths and disappearances in the shadier side of the art world. Mulder had seen the news reports, and didn't think it was all that interesting. Besides, flattery did not work.

Then Walter Skinner called from a golf course in Florida and said it would be a personal favor. "We have a location, and we think it's the guy. It's someone we thought was dead."

"I thought I turned in my Ghostbusters badge," Mulder had answered, ready to hang up.

"We think it's Krycek." And with that, they had him. In a week he was back at Quantico in the new DCI in some sort of weird temporary special agent status from some sort of former FBI reserve pool he hadn't even known existed, much less that he belonged to it. In another week he had a team, such as it was. Nield was the greenest of them.

Mulder looked at the desk, at the paperwork of Operation Ratpack. They'd flushed the quarry before they were ready, lost it already, and added another pigeon to the prey. Bierce.

Nield came in with a file, and Mulder looked at the photographs of Bierce: in a Harvard sweatshirt; wearing a suit, posing in a group photo for a news article about some charity event; standing with his arm over Krycek's shoulder, both of them smiling, comfortable and happy.

Those were two words Mulder could never imagine applying to Alex Krycek.

He did not like to admit that he had some personal satisfaction in the case already from having broken up Krycek's little love nest. The black SUVs were all it had taken to send him running. The question was, where?

~~~~~

I spent a quiet night, letting the news play in the background and practicing with the PlaSteel Ivanhoe as much as the limited hotel space would allow. It was lightweight, requiring less muscle to swing, but more active muscle to cut. I had a feeling I would need to be in fighting shape if I ever caught up with Sasha. I took breakfast in my room, and the annoyance of the TV was finally worthwhile. A black Jaguar had been found almost entirely destroyed. Hobbes had taken it off a bridge and into a canyon. Only the rear license plate was intact enough for any identification. The news announcer said that the relatives of the car's owner were being sought. I wished them luck with their search, suddenly regretful that I had not been able to give Betty a proper goodbye. She would find my will interesting, at least.

The car from the rental agency was flashier than I would have liked, but I suppose the front desk had made assumptions based on my act as Paul Adamson, spoiled son of a rich man. It was time to head south.

I had too much time for rumination, and the flat plains of corn made it hard to judge time and distance. Even the hundred channels on the satellite radio were not enough to prevent my mind from wandering back, fitting in the new information about Sasha with the careful construct of our life together.

There had been one trip in the last year, now that I looked back on it, when he may not have been sure he would return. I was working on a case in bed, computer on my lap and papers spread around, when he came into the bedroom from the dressing room.

"Done packing?" I asked, barely looking up.

"Almost."

He reached under the bed and pulled out the toy box. "I'll need to take these," he said, straightening up with a pair of handcuffs dangling from one finger.

I glanced up. He was waiting for a reaction, but I looked back to my work and said, "Why don't you take the chocolate paints, too? Although they may be a little stale by now. We haven't used them in a while."

"You're not jealous?"

"Foolishly, since you're still alive and not on anti-retrovirals, I trust you to use condoms. Also, you seem to be leaving the Dali," I glanced up at the wall where the painting hung, "which means you're probably coming back. Or, should I worry?"

"Oh, you should worry," he said, and the next thing I knew I was handcuffed to the bed. He looked at me with his trickster's eyes. There were times, like that moment, when I saw elements of myself--not Mathias Bierce but me, Methos--looking back from those eyes. When he looked at me then, pleased with himself for having caught me by surprise and cuffed me to the bed, it was the first time I was absolutely sure that he saw past the mask, and that _that_ was why he stayed, not for the lawyer with the big house, disposable income, and great technique, but for me.

Sasha picked up my papers, stacking them carelessly, and put the laptop aside. He pulled off the covers, and then my shorts. I considered fighting but before I could decide he sucked me into his mouth and made me hard so fast my head swam and I grabbed at his hair with my free hand and the rungs of the headboard with the other....

I relaxed my hand off the steering wheel where it had gripped tight with the memory. I had to stop thinking about it right there, stop the run of details that would only make me uncomfortable while driving, to say the least. No, there was something in his intensity that night that felt very much like he was saying goodbye. I suddenly remembered his destination that trip was Sedona.


	4. Wotan's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet Michael, an Immortal living under the name of Sanders, and learn of strange goings on in Sedona, Arizona.

>   
>  _"Mr. Secretary, the only thing I have learned in forty years at this trade is that when you are dealing with Out There nothing is preposterous."_   
>  The Star Beast   
> 

I hoped that Hobbes had done his job well enough that Mathias Bierce would be listed as dead, rather than missing. Just in case someone noticed anything odd about Paul Adamson, I turned in the car at the airport, and bought a ticket for a flight back to his home in Columbus. I picked up another car with a new name from a different agency.

Soon Matthew Mason, visiting Albuquerque to look at the university for graduate school in toxicology, was driving an economy car to a brewpub recommended by the rental agent. I followed the directions and parked, looking forward to lunch and beer.

The Immortal presence hit me three steps beyond the hostess station when it would have been too awkward to leave. I scanned to see who was also scanning, and was surprised to see one of the waitresses--no, a waiter--turning toward the door. We looked at each other, and I raised my eyebrows in question. He shrugged, turning back to his customers and delivering beer. Based on the shrug, I leaned to the hostess and asked, "Can I have one of his tables?" Better to know the potential enemy, since I could not slip away unseen.

"Sure." She changed her course slightly, indicated a table for two, and set down a menu. "Our specials from the brewery are an India pale ale and a chocolate porter."

I scanned the menu. It was mostly bar food with a few pretensions. The waiter showed up a moment later. There was no telling how old he really was, but he looked to be in his early thirties by current standards.

"I'm Michael," he said, "I'll be your server today. And that's all," he added, looking at me more directly than a waiter usually would, "unless you want to wait until I get off shift."

His hair was short and blond, and he was solidly built. If he had a sword anywhere near, it was in the back.

"Matthew," I said, inclining my head, "and I'm only here for food and beer."

"Okay," he said, visibly relaxing, although he hadn't looked tense before.

"How's the beer?"

"Depends. What's your favorite beer?"

It was a subtle ploy of asking my age. I was supposed to say it wasn't brewed any more, give some indication of my origins. What I said was, "Cold."

"I can do that."

"Porter or IPA?"

"The India Pale Ale is better. Definitely better than the original shipments."

Michael was at least as old as the Raj, then, although he sounded completely American.

I asked "And they have no idea that a chocolate porter could be a racist designation?"

He grinned. "I suggested they call it the Pullman porter, but the manager was old enough to know better."

I sighed. "I still miss the Pullman cars." That should lead him to think that I was about a hundred and fifty years old. That would work.

"None of the food here is as good," he said.

"So, bring me what you recommend," I said, handing the menu to him.

"Okay."

I watched him head back to the workstation, wondering what I would get. I pulled out the novel I picked up at the airport, and sunk into words until a beer landed on my table.

"Here you go. It's the bitter, which is the only thing that's consistently good. So, where are you heading?"

"How do you know I'm planning to head anywhere?"

"I know the locals, and if you were a hunter you wouldn't be so relaxed around me."

"Maybe I think you're easy prey."

Michael smiled. "You'd be wrong. Are you moving in or moving on?"

I nodded. "I'm heading south and west, over to Arizona." There was no harm in telling him. Whoever was after Sasha knew where I was going anyway.

The smile disappeared. "Sedona?" It was less a question than a statement.

I raised my eyebrows. "Why would you say that? Something I should know about Sedona?"

"I'm working," he said, to cut off conversation, and moved off to take care of other tables.

I sipped the beer. It was very good. So was the sandwich he brought me later. I read as I ate, less absorbed in the book than I appeared, although it was a good story. When Michael brought the check I asked, "What's the deal with Sedona?"

"If you're not hunting or a religious nut, why are you going?"

"I'm meeting up with a friend who could be in trouble. Any information would be useful."

He shook his head. "I'm busy."

He wasn't making excuses. The restaurant was full. "Do you have plans after work? When is your shift over?" I looked at him as if to say, _Don't make me find out the hard way._

He appeared to weigh options in his head. "Look," he said, "if you're staying in town, I'll meet you at the Rawhide at 11:00. My ass is grass if they think I'm picking up customers." Then, in a totally different tone of voice he picked up the cash I had laid down and said, "You all set with that, or do you need change?"

~~~~~

The Rawhide was exactly what one might expect. Chemical foggers replaced the old pall of cigarette smoke that used to give such places their ambiance. The faint mist softened features across the room, made everyone and everything just a little more attractive. The music was from the recent trends of retro electronica fused with Middle Eastern vocals, and I shivered involuntarily at the contrast, remembering the first time I heard the clear high ululations that marked the auditory landscape of the Middle East, long ago, long before that name. I had been away for a century, exploring the lands across the sea that would be called Mediterranean, and the once-green foothills of Mount Lebanon had been stripped of their cedars and turned to desert. The winds taught the women how to mourn, and mourning began to fill the lives of Arabia.

I shook my head, thinking that there had been brothels in Berytus, Beirut, that could compare to this place, back before the earthquakes and floods that destroyed the Roman city. The displays on the dance floor, the writhing bodies, the men lounging with drinks--some things never changed, although I would have liked it better with women in the mix. Even so, Michael had chosen well. It was the perfect place for a clandestine conversation.

I ordered a beer at the bar, and found a place to lean. It was about fifteen minutes to eleven, and I composed myself to enjoy the show, though I hadn't planned for the Matthew Mason identity to be gay. Sasha and Matty weren't ones to go to the clubs, so it had been a while since I'd been this steeped in testosterone and sex. It wasn't difficult to deflect interested glances, but if Michael was late, I might find a way to alleviate the boredom of waiting.

A beer appeared at my elbow, just as I finished the first one. I looked behind me to see Michael, who had a well-practiced expression on his face, one of invitation without vulnerability. When I turned to face him, he grabbed the belt loop of my jeans with one hand and pulled me closer. "Matthew," he said, "fancy meeting you here."

"Now, what's the deal about Sedona?"

"You don't waste time on the niceties, do you?" He let go of my jeans and cocked his head to look at me.

"I can be very nice," I said, "provided my curiosity is satisfied."

"Only your curiosity?" he said, trailing his fingers down my arm. His hand stopped, and his whole body tensed when he felt the knife in its sheath. I looked at him carefully, and realized the reaction was sexual excitement and not fear. He traced the outlines of the sheath and the grip, and his touch had as much sensuous precision as anyone had ever used on my cock. "Oh, my," he said.

"You have a dangerous kink for an Immortal."

"Not like you're gonna take my head in the middle of a bar." He pulled back his hand.

I looked around, noted a man in leather watching us. "Sedona," I said, taking a swig of beer. "What's going on in Sedona?"

"A trade?"

"Rough trade?"

"Funny," Michael said, not meaning it. "Tell me why you're going."

"Let's start simple. What are you doing waiting tables in Albuquerque?"

"I got stuck. I need enough money to forge the papers I need to get at my old accounts."

"Yes," I agreed, "not so easy in the era of Homeland Security _uber alles_. Doesn't sound like you planned well."

"I didn't expect to die in a public way. Fell off a hiking trail in the Grand Canyon."

I laughed. I couldn't help it. "Did you mean to?"

He didn't answer, looking down flirtatiously. He glanced over, and I followed his eyes. There was someone watching both of us, shirtless, eyes direct.

"Someone you know?" I asked.

Michael shrugged. "He likes new blood. He's wondering if he can get you away from me, or get me to share."

"So why aren't you in Phoenix?" I asked, returning to the thread. "It's closer."

"The university is better here." He drank his beer and looked at me. The music shifted out of trance into something I was sure had a name but was new enough that I couldn't label the sawing guitar over heavy bass and drum. I looked over Michael's shoulder to the dance floor. The movements of the dancers had changed little with the new beat.

"So, _Matthew_ , what takes brings you to our fair city?"

I looked back at him. "Had to take a right turn at Albuquerque."

He smirked. "Very funny. I gave, you give."

"My husband left, and I'm following him."

"Husband?"

I nodded.

He ran a finger over the sheath under my sleeve. "So, um, no?"

"I wouldn't say that." I leaned close to his ear, letting the atmosphere of the bar drive me for a moment. "I wouldn't say that, at all."

"I've never had a married man. I mean, I have, but they were all cheating on their _wives_."

I straightened and smiled. "Well, it's not a legal marriage."

"Is he one of us?"

I shook my head. Hard to kill, I reminded myself, but not Immortal.

"What would he want with Sedona?"

"If you'd asked me last week, I would have said he was buying crappy art. Now, I'm not so sure." I took a pull of beer, and became serious. "What's going on there?"

"There's a guy there, who calls himself Aleister Kaos."

"Cows?" It was hard to hear in the music.

"Kaos, like Taos, the city, but with a K. Looks like it should be pronounced chaos, but no one does that twice. He's got some cult thing going for mortals and people like us. Does miracles."

"What kind of miracles?"

"Heals people."

"That's an easy trick. Cut an Immortal, claim it's a miracle when they heal."

"That's what I thought, but I've seen him cure disease in someone I knew was mortal."

I wondered if he had found some way to channel a Quickening to heal a mortal. I had tried it many times, and failed. "And?"

"He's got a religion that some of us are buying. The mortals are just a cover, some sort of New Age leftover Reiki crap." He glanced around, checking to see who might be watching. "It's the inner circle that's dangerous, like Scientology for Immortals."

I raised my eyebrows. "How does that work?"

"Well you know how the Scientologists have this thing about Xenu, the alien who blew up people to cure overpopulation?"

"Do tell?"

"Well, Kaos says Immortals come from a planet called Ziest. He's got a whole mythology going about how we got here, where we come from, what it all means, how Quickenings are bad for us. When you get high enough in the organization, he sets you free from all that."

"He takes your head, you mean."

Michael nodded, lips around his beer bottle, forcing me to watch his mouth. He had to be doing that on purpose. He pulled the bottle away, and added, "That's for the favored ones who are ready to slip the mortal coil, so to speak."

I shook off the image. "And the not favored ones?"

"He gives them the chance to start over, and all the Quickenings they've ever taken, get put in a new body."

I wanted to believe no one was that stupid, but millennia of suicide cults gave evidence to the contrary. "So why do head hunters go there?"

"Pick off the edges of the herd."

"Why Sedona?"

"Weird shit happens there. More UFO sightings per capita than anywhere else in the country. And then there are the vortexes."

"What vortexes?"

"Special spiritual spots, they say. You can't spit in that town without hitting sacred ground. There are Indian medicine sites, sacred caves, all kinds of New Age crap, except some of it isn't crap. And even if it weren't sacred, I'm not sure I'd like to take a Quickening surrounded by chimneys of iron-bearing rock. He takes the favored ones there. Everyone else watches from a safe distance."

"He takes the Quickenings on sacred ground?"

"He's not Immortal, Matthew. He sets them loose. I don't know why."

"And the headhunters?"

"They hunt until they get sucked into Kaos's little religion mill," Michael said with venom. "He's quite persuasive. He can make you see things, people. He touches you and you feel--" He broke off. "It's impossible to describe."

"Try."

"Every Quickening you have, and even some you don't know you have. You can feel them." He shivered.

"Unpleasant?"

Michael nodded. "That's a word for it."

I took a sip of beer, then reached around to run a fingernail down the back of his neck. He shivered again, then relaxed into it. I changed from the nail to the pads of my fingers, massaging. "Who did you lose?" I asked gently. "Who did you want to get back so that you would risk being taken apart?"

He didn't answer, and that was all the answer I needed. I could see the cracks now, and I had to widen them to get what I wanted. The question was, what did I want from this man? I had no idea if he could give me anything more than the information I already had. My first instinct was to leave and hack into the Watchers network to find out if they knew about this cult, but the noise of the bar and, somewhere in all the smells, the scent of Michael's anxiety and arousal held me in place.

I generally constructed my identities to avoid the kind of people who believed in aliens, fairies, and, well, the possibility of five thousand year-old men. It was worth asking, "Do you believe any of it? That we're aliens from another planet?"

Michael pulled away from my hand, from what had become a caress. "No," he snorted. "It's insane. I don't know how we exist, but I'm pretty sure that some planet called Ziest doesn't exist any more than Xenu did."

"Scientology for Immortals," I mused. "So how does he recruit people? Most successful religions offer something concrete that works or feels good, at least in the early stages."

"He works miracles."

"Right. Healing."

"Bringing back the dead."

That stopped me, my heart matching the fast beat of the music. I thought of the cloned MacLeod that wasn't MacLeod. "Dead everyone, or just dead Immortals?"

"Some of the _not favored_ ones are not volunteers. People bring him Immortals who have killed someone they--" he hesitated, about to say a word that began with L, but continued, "someone they want back, and he shreds them out into a new body."

This was a bit difficult to believe, but Bobby Hobbes had told me things under truth serum that were just as strange, if not stranger. "What about the bodies?"

"Blanks. They're all the same."

Clones, I thought. "Does the person with the Quickening die?"

"Sort of. Every Quickening that person had goes into a new blank. Kaos calls it cleansing."

I looked at the ceiling. The thought was a horror beyond any torture I had ever endured. I could not imagine all those parts of me torn away, but another thought twitched in the back of my brain. Michael knew too much. "And if it's a cult, how did you get out of it?"

He smiled at me, and it wasn't a nice smile. I liked him better for it. He said, "I fell off a trail hiking in the Grand Canyon."

"So you did do it on purpose. You're hiding."

He nodded.

"What were you doing in a cult? I don't know you, but you seem a bit more sensible than that."

"That's a word for it. I hate everybody and loathe religion. I was trying to game the system."

"You wanted to bring someone back?"

Michael shrugged. The mournful wail of vocal over dance beat filled a silence between us. I watched the writhing on the dance floor, part disinterested, and part turned on.

"It didn't work?"

"Oh, it worked. That was part of the problem."

I had no idea if this was connected to Sasha, but if he was connected to the old man, and the old man was connected to people who could clone, it didn't seem like a big leap.

"If it worked, what was the problem?"

He drank beer, and looked past me. Anyone watching would have thought we were done. That would be my cue to let him move on, but something else was going on in his head.

"Do they have a back room?" I asked. The question was somewhat rhetorical.

He nodded. I put his hand on my forearm, on the knife. "You tell me everything, and I'll give you the ride of your life."

He didn't look at me, but his fingers began moving over my shirt, over the sheath. "You won't believe it." He took a swig of beer as punctuation.

"You'd be surprised at what I'll believe today."  



	5. Wotan's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Methos calls MacLeod, follows Krycek to Sedona, and interrupts a tryst. Mulder figures out where they're going.

 

>   
> _A man who takes his fun where he finds it, then marries and expects his wife to be different, is a fool._  
>  I Will Fear No Evil

 

I liked sunrise in the desert, although I had to admit that flying through all that sand at a hundred miles per hour suited me more than riding through it at the pace of some hairy beast. I had been driving since 3:00 AM, having traded cars with Michael. My appearance barely matched any ID I was holding. Michael had shaved my head for me, and double pierced my lower lip in a snakebite. Disguised enough, for now.

It would take a few more hours to get to Sedona, and I had been thinking all night. There was a lot to digest, between Michael and Bobby Hobbes.

I let my mind wander back to the night before, to the spark and crackle of immortal healing flaring in the booth, the blood in my mouth, the feel of a different body after seven years of Sasha, and I had never let Sasha into this territory. Michael took me home, and we did it again, and then some. In the end, I held Michael across my lap like a strange Pieta, healed but bloodstained and exhausted. He talked, then, and told me what I needed to know.

Michael, it seemed, had tried to get someone back. Not a lover, but a friend, he'd said. He had followed the trail of her killer, intending to challenge him. When the Immortal was kidnapped, he followed to Sedona. He found the cult, or it found him, he wasn't sure. In the end he learned that the Immortal who held his friend also held the Quickening desired by of one of Kaos's converts. Michael thought he could have his friend returned among the clones.

"Imagine a Quickening in reverse," Michael had said, and I did. He described the victim, and there was no other word for it, unwillingly pulled apart at the soul, in pain and agony deeper than any torture of the body. At one point in the description he retreated so deeply into himself, shuddering, that I pricked his cheek with the knife to bring him back.

Reflecting as I drove, I ticked off what he had told me. The process involved both machines and some strange talent, or trick, that Kaos had. It looked to Michael as if Kaos served as a conduit. The first clone appeared to be given target Quickening, the one he was supposed to be bringing back, and took the longest. The rest were pushed through like an assembly line, and carted off before anyone could interact with them. Michael had no idea which clone might have his friend's Quickening, or, given the behavior of the first clone, whether there were any memories, any self, attached.

On all levels, the story was preposterous. I could not imagine how it could be done. The layers of selves and lives implied by every head each had taken boggled the mind, but Michael seemed to think that only those that the victim had personally taken could be recovered, not those many layers deep. Only the revelations of the old man, of Hobbes, and seeing the clone with MacLeod's face gave me any impetus to believe the story, and I wondered what would have happened if the clone I saw had had a Quickening. What would I have done differently?

There was an implication that Michael hadn't considered, but I knew a bit more than he did about who might have made the clones. Old men with shady dealings could find uses for a small army of Immortal clones. If the Quickenings came with no memories, they could be molded into formidable soldiers. I alone could give them an entire legion.

And what did Sasha have to do with this? If he was sought by both the old men and the federal agents, he was not a passive player. I had a sudden spike of paranoia and wondered if he knew about Immortals, about me, and whether he was luring me to Sedona to supply that legion.

I pulled off the highway, bought gasonol I did not need, and went to look for a beer. I had to think. The town was small enough that there wasn't a bar, so I went back to the filling station and bought a tall can of beer emblazoned with a first prize ribbon. It came with a perfectly sized paper bag. I went back out on the road until I found a rest area with picnic tables, then parked where I could watch the cars on the road. I popped the top of the beer, and thought.

The landscape was good for thinking. I wasn't as familiar with the American deserts as those of Africa and the Levant. I knew Australia even better. The shapes of the low cactus were like organic sculptures, and the tall saguaro could not escape comparison to human forms. A small bird with a long tail ran crouching low, then stopped to look at me between the thorns of one of the low plants.

First thing when I got to Sedona would be to find Sasha before he found me. Second thing would be to get him to tell me why he was there. I knew him well enough to suspect that he would not make it easy to find the truth. Third thing would be to destroy Kaos's little cult by taking him out. Fourth on the list might be to track down the maker of the clones and destroy them, too, but without Kaos to supply Quickenings they may not be such a threat. The memory of that false MacLeod, though, made me shudder. And oh, yes, I would need to find the Quickened clones and destroy them. That should be number four. If they were all in one place, it would best be done with bombs. I wondered if I could take all those Quickenings at once, or if I should be very far away when it went up.

There were two more pressing questions. Would I need backup? Could I kill Sasha?

If I didn't have to kill Sasha, he might be all the backup I needed. If I did, I would want someone who would find the set-up as disturbing as I did, someone who could take it on as a crusade. MacLeod. I wasn't sure whether to call him now, or after I had confirmation. There was a connection between us, a shared Quickening, that made me uncomfortable. Calling MacLeod also meant Watchers, and the streak in me of academic and former Watcher wanted them to know about this abomination. That was the deciding factor.

Matthew Mason had a prepaid cell phone. I turned it on for the first time, waited for a signal, then dialed a number I knew from memory. If he did not answer, I wasn't sure what I would do. I held the phone so the camera had a good view of my face. If he did not recognize the number he might use a peephole to see who was calling before answering. After seven rings I was sure he had one of the video sneak programs, and before the eighth ring, he answered.

It was easier to see him on the phone, rather than be in his Presence. His hair was still short, and from what I could see on the small screen, he was wearing a business suit. Instead of answering by announcing his name, he said, "Took a moment to recognize you. You look different. Sorry to keep you waiting. What did I do to deserve a call from the world's oldest man? How long has it been?"

I kept my voice light. "Sixteen years, at least. I went to Harvard, studied law, and made partner before turning thirty five."

"That's nice. What went wrong?"

I remembered why I hadn't missed the man, and I was thankful that I felt nothing of the shared Quickening over the phone. "Why should anything have gone wrong?"

He gave me one of his insufferable grins. "You called me. Also, you have rings in your lips in what I suspect is an attempt at disguise."

I had to concede the point. "True, but I called because there may be something bigger than my personal problems."

"You have personal problems?" His wide-eyed expression told me that he knew was being a brat. Even so, it wounded, if only slightly.

"Fuck off. Talk to you in another decade, or not."

"Stop. I'm sorry. What is it that you need?" He looked genuinely contrite.

"What if I told you that someone was building an army of clones with stolen Immortal Quickenings?"

He snorted. "I'd want to know what you were smoking."

I kept my gaze level, and kept my peace.

After a moment his expression changed. "You're not kidding."

"To be honest, I don't know for sure, but the evidence so far adds up."

"What evidence?"

"Most of it's hearsay, but there was a clone of you."

" _What?_ "

"Has any one done anything suspicious around you lately, anything having to do with, say scraping cells from your cheek or drawing blood?"

He looked up n recall, then looked back at me and said, "About five years ago." He didn't elaborate, but his face told me that someone was going to have some insistent questions thrown at them very soon.

"They tried to clone you, but it failed. Probably something to do with Immortality. Instead they made your features by plastic surgery on something they called a blank."

"Where's the clone?"

"Don't worry. I shot it in the head, and someone else burned the body."

"Some things never change," he said. Even on the tiny screen he looked sad, as if one necessary death of a clone meant that I'd be raiding villages horseback again. It irritated me.

"Fuck off. You want to know more about this, or not?"

He schooled his face. "Tell me more."

I told him. I told myself that I left Sasha out of the story because I wasn't yet sure where he fit. The truth serum had worn off, after all.

 

~~~~~

_Mulder looked up at the hesitant knock on the door. "Come in, Nield."_

_She took a breath, looking like someone about to face a firing squad.  Mulder was so very tired of the deference, which in Nield's case only made him snap at her harder.  She said, "Mr. Mulder, someone answering Bierce's description rented a car in Trinidad, Colorado, under the name Paul Adamson.  The car was returned in Albuquerque.  A ticket was purchased under the same name to Columbus, Ohio.  He never boarded the plane."_

_"Right," said Mulder.  "And under what name did he rent the next car?"_

_She seemed surprised that he was ahead of her.  "Matthew Mason, but we lost him in Albuquerque."_

_"And why is that?"_

_"He switched cars, we think.  It was at a, at a gay bar."_

_"And our people tailing him were too squeamish to walk in, much less watch to see who he walked out with?"_

_"I can't say, sir."_

_Mulder sighed. "Full report."_

_"He was last seen in the company of a Michael Sanders before heading into the, er, back rooms.  Matthew Mason's rental was still parked at the bar in the morning.  Sander's account had a large sum transferred into it the next day from the accounts of Paul Adamson through an on-line transaction bounced through two anonymizers owned by the federal government and one that is not.  The originating IP address was Sanders'."_

_"Define large amount."_

_"Eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars."_

_Maybe that seemed like a lot of money to Nield.  It was not much more than necessary for a good change of identification.  "Hmm.  Go on."_

_"Sanders later that day bought tickets to Boston, New York, Chicago and Seattle.  He appears to have boarded the New York, Chicago and Seattle flights, but was not seen disembarking at those destinations.  His car is not in Albuquerque."_

_"Well," said Mulder, "there's a man who likes his privacy, and Bierce has Sanders' car."_

_"Sir?"_

_Mulder looked at her over his glasses, ignoring her question.  "Put out an APB on the car.  What is it?"_

_"2019 Toyota Celica.  There are a lot of bumper stickers on the back, mostly political."_

_"What kind of politics?"_

_"Left, sir, and er, gay rights."_

_"So we have no idea who Sanders is?"_

_"He arrived in Albuquerque four months ago, and enrolled in the university.  He worked as a waiter.  Other than regular kickboxing lessons, he appeared to lead a fairly quiet life."_

_"And was he a regular at the gay bar?"_

_Nield blushed.  "Well, yes.  Quiet except for that."_

_"Your naiveté is not becoming.  Kinks, tastes, known weaknesses?"_

_"Sir?"_

_Mulder rubbed his eyes.  "Sanders', not yours.  Find out.  It could mean something."_

_"Do we want to find Sanders himself?"_

_"You won't," Mulder guessed that Sanders had taken one of the flights, but changed appearance on the way.  He wasn't sure what profit there would be in finding him.  He was probably some random person Bierce had found who was ready enough to take his money to start over somewhere else.  He probably knew nothing about Krycek._

_Then Mulder kicked himself.  No one who would try the multiple boardings trick was merely starting over._

_Nield was still waiting, undismissed._

_"Find him if you can, but it's not top priority.  Get out of here and let me think."_

_Something told him that Sanders was a red herring.  Where was Krycek going?  Why would Bierce be able to change identity so easily, unless he had several prepared?_

_Mulder looked at the transcript of Krycek's last greeting on Sasha Lisitsa's phone, then sat up straight.  "Nield!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs.  "Johnson!  Gantt!"_

_His team came running, Nield's heel click standing out against the soft soles of the others' shoes.  They came into his office and gathered in front of his desk, Johnson leaning to see if there was something on the desk or computer that would give her a clue, her braids swinging.  He warned her off with a glare._

_"Johnson, Gantt, go pack your bags.  We're going to Arizona.  Nield, do the paperwork."_

_"What should I do while you're gone, sir?" asked Nield._

_Mulder wanted to tell her to go home and watch porn until she stopped blushing, but instead gave her an assignment.  "Keep working on Bierce's past, and Sanders', too."_

~~~~~

How to find Sasha? I checked into a cheap hotel, paid for four days in advance, and proceeded to skulk. There wasn't another word for it. I looked like a psycho, so I bought a sketchbook and adopted the guise of a retro-punk artist with an interest in the vortexes as a way to find inspiration. I expected it was a common enough type not to be noticed. Looking around, I was not wrong.

The problem was the sheer number of Immortals in the town. I doubted the role would wash with them, so I did my best to stay unmarked. I spotted Sasha on the street by the afternoon, and trailed him through galleries, dinner, and eventually a hotel room. He was not alone.

The blond woman had joined him at dinner, and walked back with him to his hotel. I waited a considerate hour before picking the lock and letting myself in.

I composed myself to watch. Sasha fucked beautifully, I knew, but to see it, rather than receive it, was gratifying in new ways. She was up on all fours. He leaned slightly on her with his good hand, the prosthetic reaching down. I knew those fingers moved in ways no normal hand could, and from the sounds she was making, it was pleasurable. Of course it was. I knew exactly what that hand could do.

I watched his body flex and thrust, watched the motion of fucking, absorbed the sound and the smells, and let myself respond. I moved toward the bed, stripping off my T-shirt and sweater. Sasha turned, never missing a stroke, and smiled. I expected at least a flicker of surprise, but all I saw was welcome.

I stepped forward and put my hand on his ass, feeling it move. He opened his mouth to me in invitation, and I gave him fingers to suck. He made it clear that he was making them wet, so after a moment I obliged him by sliding my hand down his crack and inside.

The woman was still unaware of me. Sasha whispered to her, "Come on, come again for me, come on." It continued like a chant until she bucked back hard, and I could see Sasha in a momentary struggle not to give in himself. He leaned down and kissed her between her shoulder blades, then straightened up to kiss me. "Come on," he whispered against my mouth, taking one of the rings in his teeth.

"Mmm. More," the woman pleaded, and Sasha began moving inside her again. I kissed his cheek. He indicated condoms and lubricant on the nightstand, and I knelt on the bed behind him, dropped my jeans to my thighs and prepared myself. In a lull during a slight shift of position, I rammed my cock in, making it half way. He froze.

"Alex?" said the woman, then "Oh God," as I pushed in short strokes that worked him deeper into her.

"She has to come twice more before you do," I growled in his ear.

She looked over he shoulder as he and I began a coordinated movement, her eyes wide. "Alex?" she said again.

I smiled and turned Sasha's face toward me, leaning in to kiss him. We made a display of it, him pulling at the rings, me biting his lips, and she said, "Oh God," again. I wondered if it was the sum of her vocabulary. I put my hands on her waist, bracing myself against her as I kissed Sasha and fucked him. She groaned, bucked and froze momentarily underneath us and came again, hard and sharp, her hips demanding.

"That's one," I said.

I slid my hand up her side and cupped her breast. It was a bit of a stretch, but her response to my fingers on her nipple was worth it. "Don't stop," I said to her. "Ride it. Feel it rise again. That's it. I'm going to count to twenty-five, and then you're going to come again." This time, instead of Sasha rocking back and forth between us, we drove together. It gave him almost nothing from me, which was probably good, given how close he was, and it pushed him into her with a new and different force. I worked her nipple as I counted. She didn't come right at twenty-five, but a few more words of encouragement from both of us sent her over.

When she was done, I leaned to Sasha's ear and said, "Now it's your turn." He pushed back against me, and I could tell he was determined to make me go off before he did. I couldn't stand it. I moved my hands to his hips, and stroked deep, angling the way he liked. It became a race, and I was determined not to let him win.

I scarcely noticed the woman beneath us, reminded of her only when I reached for Sasha's chest and found it pressed against her back. I worked my hands underneath, and twisted his nipples hard. I had never done more than tease around the edges of pain with him, and I wondered how he would respond. His reaction pleased me. He curled forward and groaned. Another twist, harder, and he bucked and froze, then pushed back against me in no rhythm, his shout wordless and gratifying.

I gave him ten seconds to recover himself, then pulled him upright. The woman turned over and settled herself at the headboard to watch. She was closer to Sasha's age than I had thought, her eyes a striking, pale blue. "I think you'd better leave now," I said. "I have a few things to discuss with Alexander." I emphasized my point by thrusting into him hard.

She looked at Sasha, as if for confirmation. He nodded. Something about the interchange told me they knew each other quite well. She slid from the bed and dressed in a very few moments. I pulled the condom off Sasha and tossed it on the floor, then put my hand on his neck, threatening. Some part of me figured that he knew six ways to get out of stranglehold, even with a dick in his ass, but he waited.

I watched her leave, and she favored me with frost from her ice blue eyes. When the door clicked behind her, I pulled my gun and pressed the end of the barrel tight to his chin, then dropped the knife into my hand from its sheath and laid it flat on his abdomen, edge just touching his dick.

"Why, Matty," he said, "I never knew you were the jealous type."


	6. Wotan's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Matty" and "Sasha" put (some of) their cards on the table.

>   
>  _I do know that the slickest way to lie is to tell the right amount of truth--then to shut up._   
>  Stranger in a Strange Land   
> 

 

"I'm not jealous," I said. "I need answers."

He leaned his head back on my shoulder, and pushed himself down on my cock. "What more do you need to know, lover."

"What do the words _clone, consortium_ , and _old men_ make you think."

"If you wanted alliteration, it should be _codgers_."

I shoved the gun up harder.

He hesitated and then relaxed against me and said, " _There_ you are. I've been wondering when you'd show up. There had to be something much more interesting under the stuffy lawyer." He rubbed his head against my shoulder, ignoring the gun.

"Are you trying to piss me off?"

"Is it working?"

"No," I lied. He irritated and amused me all at once. It seemed like I'd been living with my match for seven years and not even known it. "Now, talk."

"Wouldn't you rather fuck?" he asked, flexing his hips back, and flinching slightly as the blade of the knife bit sensitive flesh. I knew the look on his face without having to see it. Insolence.

"Do you really want me in the throes of orgasm with my finger on a trigger?"

"But it's so hot. You're a rape fantasy come true."

"Now it's working," I said, moving the gun to the back of his skull and forcing him back down on all fours, showing an anger that was not entirely performance.

It was a skill I had not tested in quite a while, to fuck and maintain control. It came back to me, and I worked it, enjoying both his body and my power over it. Eventually I felt his cock, hard again and hitting the knuckles of my knife hand. "Jack yourself," I said. "Get off."

He lifted his prosthetic. "Other hand," I said, not trusting the extra strength I knew lay in those artificial fingers. Given the items I'd seen in his case, I wondered whether he had hidden capabilities engineered even into his social arm.

I fucked him in silence, shifting my grip around his waist to trace his chest with the knife, leaning my weight on my gun hand.

"Jesus, Matt," he said.

"I said, get yourself off, _Alex_." I shifted my angle a bit, and in moments he began to buck back against me, panting. I let myself come, forcing myself to keep my eyes open and my hands steady.

His timing was perfect, and I was out of practice. I couldn't help but relax a fraction, and he twisted under me, taking a shallow cut across his chest in the process, but tackling in close. That strong prosthetic gripped my wrist and found the pressure point that forced the gun out of my fingers.

He kissed me, or tried to, as we wrestled for control of the knife. My head was over the edge of the bed, and he had the advantage of a stable position. I flexed and forced us on the floor, trying for equal ground and the gun, but he was on top and reached it first. I froze when I felt the barrel on my temple.

"My turn," he said. "Heels to the ceiling, Matty boy. I can't believe you fell for the old fake orgasm trick."

I couldn't believe it either. With a gun to my head, I complied, my jeans preventing me from spreading, but it would be enough with my knees to my chest. I wondered what the next minutes would reveal about Sasha. There was some lubrication, in the form of semen sticking to his cock, but nothing felt good until he made me take off my boots in this undignified position, pulled my jeans over my feet, then leaned to kiss me for real. He put down his hand, still holding the gun, for leverage.

He proceeded to give me rug burn, along with a series of short, sharp shocks with each stroke that added up to me howling into his mouth as he pulled hard with his teeth on one of my lip rings. Only then did he let himself go, rearing up and driving into me. I reached for his nipples, and he paused his thrusting and handed me the knife.

It was all I needed to know for the moment. He wasn't going to kill me any time soon, and he trusted me not to kill him. I laughed inwardly, thinking it was at the least a good start toward reconciliation, if stupid on his part.

I was practiced with the knife, thanks to Michael in Albuquerque. I reached in with the blade and teased his nipples with the point, then drew the blade across his flesh enough to hurt, but not do more than nick the skin. I didn't know how far he wanted to go, and he would have to heal the slow way.

He came, hard and unguarded. I put the knife to his throat and the gun to his head.

"Where were we?"

To my surprise, he started to laugh, then seeing that I did not join in, he pulled out of me and sat back on his heels, out of range of the knife. I did not follow him, but sat up and slid myself back, keeping the gun level, remembering what Hobbes told me about the futility of shooting him in the head, and aimed at his throat.

"You're serious, aren't you?" He seemed puzzled and sad. I wondered if it were real. "You think I'm a threat?"

"Am I wrong?"

"Clones, consortium, codgers," he said. "That's the threat."

"What's your connection?" It wasn't easy to interrogate a naked lover while wearing no pants and a trace of afterglow, at least, not and keep an entirely straight face, but this had to play out.

"I used to work for them. I was going to be one of them."

"Why did you leave?"

"I'm not a threat to you, Mathias." He let himself give in to the ridiculousness, and shook his head, smiling. "Look at you. No one back in Denver would believe it. The lip piercings are a nice touch."

"We're not in Denver. We're in Sedona. Why?"

He smirked. "Clones, consortium, codgers. Would you believe me if I told you that a group of old men who used to be involved with an alien invasion of our planet have access to cloning facilities?"

"Tuesday? No. Today? Yes."

Sasha raised his eyebrows. "And what happened between Tuesday and today?"

"I got kidnapped in my own car by an old man and a clone." I said, "They were interesting conversational partners, not that the clone said much, but the mere fact of his presence was somewhat compelling."

"Ah." He cocked his head. I knew we were both wearing the same assessing look. He wanted to know what I knew as much as I wanted to know what he knew.

"So, what side do you come out on?" I asked.

"Pro-clone or anti?"

"Something like that."

"Not pro. Not with what they're doing."

"What are they doing?"

"Would you believe it if I told you they were making an army of clones that healed almost instantly, that could be killed and come back to life?"

"Yes." Sasha raised his eyebrows in surprise, and I added, "It's not Tuesday any more. What side are you on?" Come on, I thought at him. Give me a reason to either shoot you or put down the gun.

He smiled again. "What side do you want me to be on?"

He was tilting the scale toward pulling the trigger. I said nothing.

"I just fucked you bareback," he said.

"I noticed. Don't change the subject."

He glanced down. "There's blood on my dick."

I did not follow his eyes. "Answer the question."

"Don't worry. There's a point here, counselor." His face showed a side of Sasha I had rarely seen. His bratty behavior had always been at the amusing edge of irritating, and his negotiations over art purchases had always been at the urbane edge of vicious. That veneer was gone. I could see straight to the snake, the tiger, the shark. "Are you mad at me for that?" he asked.

My internal alarms were going off. "I have bigger concerns right now."

"Bigger than a life of AIDS? But you're not worried, right? You're like those clones."

The alarm bell became a screaming klaxon. "What do you mean? You're not suddenly HIV positive, are you?"

"Would it matter? You don't cut yourself shaving. You don't bruise. I'm not stupid, Mathias."

"I never thought you were. Stupid lovers become boring rather more quickly."

"If I was boring," he said, his eyes narrowing, and damn it if he didn't leer, "it's only because you never showed me this side of you. I can't say I like the look, but it's been ages since someone fucked me with a gun to my head. I missed it."

I had no answer. I waited, my silence reminding him of my unanswered question. What side was he on?

He also knew the trick of keeping silent, so we waited. The gun was getting heavy, so I raised my knee as a prop for my arm.

After several long minutes I decided to break first and feed his ego a small victory. "There's one thing I want to tell you. The old man who kidnapped me gave me a truth serum."

His face betrayed no surprise. "And?"

"There wasn't much I could tell him about you, at least nothing he wanted to know. I learned a few things: your other name, some of your history, the metal fused to your skull."

"Not metal. Early PlaSteel." His eyes looked thoughtful. "What else?"

"You can't lie to yourself on that drug. I--" I hesitated. Revealing this could have several effects, the least and most desirable being that Sasha would think he had a hold over me.

"What is it?" Sasha stopped with just asking the question. He'd been about to add something sarcastic, one of the cutting remarks that I found so entertaining back in Denver.

"I called you my husband." I took the gamble, and relaxed my grip on the gun, which was fortunate, because I would have pulled the trigger in surprise as he pounced on me, tackling me to the floor and kissing me like we hadn't just had sex.

"You have no idea," he said, burying his face in my neck, "no idea." I thought I felt moisture. Then he pulled himself together, stood and offered me a hand up. We faced each other.

"So," I said, "we've gone from _Mr. and Mrs. Smith_ to _True Lies_?"

"Those remakes were terrible." He walked past me toward the bathroom, for all the world as if nothing had happened since Tuesday.

"I thought Apple Martin was good as Mrs. Smith."

"Sure, but Vin Diesel in the Arnold role? With Reese Witherspoon for Jamie Lee Curtis? No comparison."

"Works for us, though, doesn't it? Secret second lives, and all that?" He thumbed the catch on his arm and laid it on the bed. "Come on. If you're not going to shoot me, let's get a shower."

We did not talk as we washed each other, and spent no small amount of time looking into each other's eyes. It was part stupid romance, part genuine search, trying to see how deep the layers went. I ran a finger over the scar on his forehead, leaned into his hand as he rubbed the new stubble on my head. By the time we stepped out to dry off, I was sure of two things.

I loved him even more, and I would kill him if I had to.

I borrowed a pair of his shorts and a T-shirt, and reached over to give him a hand with his pants. It had taken me three years to get him to accept my casual help, and I was glad he did not decide to discard that intimacy. "Got any beer?"

"In anticipation of your arrival, I laid in a stock." He leaned over the hotel fridge then handed me two bottles. "You'll have to do the honors. I need a break from that thing." He indicated the prosthetic with a nod.

I handed him a beer. "Let's finish the conversation. Clones, consortium, and--"

"Codgers," he finished.

"And cults," I added.

"So you know about Aleister Kaos?"

"I've been told a few things, but I'm not sure I know anything."

"I can tell you one thing. You're a candidate, and I'm not."

"Why is that?"

Sasha picked up the knife. "Give me your hand."

There was no point resisting. I laid my hand on his leg. Without his prosthetic he couldn't force me, so I hoped this display of trust had a beneficial effect. I could not help but wince as he sliced into my forearm and blood welled out and dripped down the side of my hand.

"Red," he said suddenly less tense. "You bleed red."

"Yes. Lucky for us, it matches the ugly pattern on the bed spread."

I watched Sasha watch me heal, the play of his emotions illuminated by the sparks of my Quickening. When it was done, I went to the bathroom to wash away the blood.

I came out to find him looking in the mirror, fingering the shallow slice on his chest.

"Would this--?" he asked, moving to touch the stump of his left arm. I shook my head. "How?"

"I don't know," I answered. "We're born like this. If we're born. I don’t know."

~~~~~

_Mulder stared at the TV screen in the waiting area, not paying attention. Their flight should have boarded already and he was irritated. Then the name Bierce caught his attention, and he stood up and moved closer in order to hear._

_"…Heyn has stepped in, representing Olympian Chemical. It is assumed that Bierce was one of the two bodies found in his crashed Jaguar, but police are still trying to find samples intact enough for DNA analysis. The other body may be that of Alexander Lisitsa, Bierce's long-time companion, who is also missing." The picture Mulder had on file, of Bierce and Krycek smiling for the camera, flashed briefly on the screen, to be replaced with a slightly familiar logo. "As you may remember, the case of Bromfield vs. Olympian Chemical will challenge the company's right to claim royalties on plants that have been cross-pollinated by bees with pollen from patented agricultural species. In other business news…"_

_Mulder pulled out his phone and called Nield. "It's Mulder. Olympian Chemical. Get me information on the company going back to the mid 1990s. I think it had a different name then. Mergers, acquisitions, scandals, everything." He hung up in the middle of her "Yes, sir."_

_His phone rang._

_"Mulder."_

_"Sir," said Nield, "you might want to know that Bierce had his secretary file for seven weeks vacation yesterday."_

_"Starting when?"_

_"Starting yesterday."_

_"So he dumped the case before the crash."_

_"Sir?"_

_"The bodies in Bierce's Jaguar. Where were they found? Where would they have been sitting?"_

_"Um." Nield looked away, and Mulder heard the clicking of computer keys as she navigated the file system. "The report says one in the front passenger seat, one on the driver's side."_

_"Front or back."_

_"The, er, remains were in the back seat, but could have flipped into the back during the crash."_

_"Nield, a Jaguar won't run without the driver's seatbelts engaged."_

_"Oh. There was melted safety belt webbing embedded in both corpses. Neither corpse had an ID. They were burned by acid from the batteries as well as burned by fire. The report said that local technicians had difficulty finding tissue for DNA analysis. The results may be unreliable, because there is no match in the database."_

_"Find the driver."_

_"Sir? Wouldn't that have been Bierce?"_

_"I doubt it. Ask around the area of the wreck. Did someone need a ride? Rent a car?"_

_"But, sir, Bierce checked into a hotel and rented a car the next day. You don't think it was him?"_

_"No," said Mulder. "Locations, Nield. How far apart are the wreck and the hotel?"_

_There was a short silence, a click of keys. "One hundred and thirty seven miles."_

_"I don't think he wrecked the car. Ask questions. Find out if there was anyone else in the surrounding towns that showed up in need of a car."_

_"You want me to go to Colorado?"_

_Mulder shook his head. "Sorry. Keep working on Bierce's background and the Olympian Chemical stuff. Get the Denver office on it."_

_"On what grounds? There are jurisdictional issues, sir."_

_"The Director got us assigned to this case. He should be able to pull them in."_

~~~~~

"And the woman?" I asked.

"Took you long enough to get around to her."

"It's my lawyerly mind. I had to take things in order. Clones, conspiracies, codgers, cults. And then cunts."

Sasha laughed out loud. "Do we get to cocks after that?" He reached out and put a lazy, familiar hand on my crotch.

"Only _coq au vin_. I'm starving. I wonder if anything is open around here this time of night?"

We were both tired. We had spent an hour cautiously feeling each other out, trying to assess how much the other knew, before Sasha finally said, "Cards on the table, Matt. We're on the same side, or we're not." We learned more, then. I told him about the old man, the clone that looked like MacLeod, and Bobby Hobbes, and how they were all probably dead. He seemed pleased. I shared Michael's information on the cult, which confirmed and extended what Sasha had been able to learn. Sasha knew about the clones and the old men, but he didn't tell me how he knew. I told him about the Game, but not about the Watchers. I told him I'd seen San Francisco burn, but not London, Troy, or Aten's temple. He told me about the X-files and his time at the FBI, but not about Mulder. He told me about the Syndicate, and to this day I don't know what he withheld. I would learn of Mulder later.

"Let's go find something to eat."

"Can't we order in?" Sedona was crawling with Immortals, and I was in no mood for a challenge.

"Hmm." He looked at me, considering. "Might be better than being seen with you."

"Yes, I'm no match for that blond. Who was she again?"

The woman was explained as an old friend, another dealer, and yes, they did this on a regular basis when they were in the same city. I accepted his explanation, but did not believe it. Sasha went out for more beer while we waited for the pizza to be delivered. My cell phone rang.


	7. Wotan's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mulder learns about Immortals. A nod is made to Highlander II.

>   
>  _One may bask at the warm fire of faith or choose to live in the bleak uncertainty of reason--one cannot have both._   
>  Friday   
> 

 

The number was unfamiliar. I checked the peephole, and saw MacLeod on the video screen. "This is Matt," I said.

"It's me," said MacLeod's voice. "I'm driving up from Phoenix now. Probably get in after midnight."

"Where are you staying?"

He named a hotel a block away.

"I'll wake you up bright and early."

"I can't wait."

I hung up the phone and flipped through TV channels until Sasha returned with more beer. He was followed by the pizza boy bearing two large boxes. Sasha paid him and we ate, lost in our own thoughts, the television a drone in the background until the words Olympian Chemical caught my ear.

"…the company is moving to settle the case known as Bromfield vs. Olympian Chemical."

The camera cut from the anchor, and Heyn's blond head filled the screen, obviously an interview outside the courtroom. "Olympian Chemical is not a company of mad scientists, as Mr. Bromfield and his co-litigants would like you to believe. They are working for the good of the entire world. As such, they have decided to release the license on GenaCorn to the entire world."

"Won't this be a financial blow to the company?" asked the voice of a reporter off screen.

"The company's board believes that the financial outcome will be only a small blip in the grand scheme of things. If GenaCorn can solve food and fuel problems, it belongs to the world."

"Well that's a change in tune," I said. "They told me to fight it."

The anchor filled the screen again, a well-preserved woman with a more conservative version of the latest trend in women's hair. "That was Olympian Chemical's lead attorney, Mark Heyn. As you may remember, Mr. Heyn stepped into the case after the disappearance and presumed death of Denver attorney Mathias Bierce. No leads have been found in that case, and the two bodies found in the car have not yet been positively identified.

"Only two bodies?" I turned off the TV, my thoughts flipping between the two riddles. One was the change of heart in the board of my clients, who had instructed me to take Bromfield to the limit. The other was the question of which body was missing from my burnt-out car. It had to be Hobbes.

"You know," said Sasha, "I hate it when bodies go missing."

"Had that problem before, have you?"

He smiled. His eyes were cold, however. "I've known other people who didn't stay dead."

"You don't mean me." It was not a question.

"They weren't like you. I didn't know people like you existed back then."

We were suddenly in new territory. Sasha's entire demeanor had changed. He looked like, well, like a soldier and a spy, at the very least some kind of agent.

I responded in kind, shoving aside the pizza boxes. "Talk."

He told me about the super soldiers, the alien replacements that could regenerate from a single artificial vertebra. It was strange, hearing him deliver the information as if he were giving a report to a superior. I fell into the role, asking questions, following up on trails of information.

"But I think we destroyed them, as many as we could find," he finished. "They had their own version of kryptonite, a mineral called magnetite found in meteors. I've been moving it around in art shipments for years."

How much more science fiction could this get? "Could the clone I saw have been one of the super soldiers?"

Sasha shook his head, then shrugged. "Maybe. They were alien human replacements, and several groups worked to eradicate them. We think we got most of them over the last twenty years. It could be one of those, but then, why would it look like your friend? No, I think this whole scheme is an attempt to make some kind of unkillable soldier without the magnetite allergy. Olympian Chemical is the source of the clones."

"And you didn't feel the need to tell me this when I was working for them?"

"That was before Tuesday."

I couldn't tell if he was joking or not, so I flipped him off.

~~~~~

_"Olympian Chemical is the result of the merger of several companies with the names of Greek gods. Athena Computer systems, Heracles Composites--"_

_"Heracles was only a half god," Mulder interrupted. "Hey, those are the people who make PlaSteel, right?"_

_"Yes sir," said Nield. "Also, Eris Biologica, a biotech company, Aphrodite Cosmetics, and Zeus Genetics."_

_Mulder sat up from his sprawl in the back seat. Jim Gantt drove the car, with Eryna Johnson in the passenger seat doing the minimal navigation needed to drive north on Interstate 17. The last thing anyone had said before Mulder's phone rang was Johnson's instruction to take the exit for highway 179. With Mulder's change in posture, they were both on alert._

_"I thought Zeus Genetics burned down twenty years ago."_

_"That was just one facility, sir."_

_Mulder took a breath, then let it out slowly. "Anything else?"_

_"They just announced that they're settling the Bromfield case and releasing GenaCorn under the Genetic Commons open source license."_

_"They're publishing the gene sequence?"_

_"Actually, it’s a series of regulatory genes, each of which had been in the public domain, but they modified them slightly. The mutations and resultant biochemical interactions they engineered had not been published."_

_"Nield, you surprise me. I didn't know you knew biotechnology."_

_"I'm just reading reports, sir."_

_Mulder had his doubts. "Anything new on Bierce or Sanders?"_

_"Agents have searched Sanders' apartment."_

_"What did they find?"_

_"Blood, sir. A lot of blood. Almost all of it on the bed. Also hair."_

_"Pubic hair?"_

_"Sir!"_

_"DCI agents don't squeak, Agent Nield," Mulder sighed. "What kind of hair?"_

_"Regular hair, sir. It looked like someone gave Bierce a hair cut. The local investigators think he shaved his head. Sanders was blond, and the hair in the trash and the sink trap was brunette. There was a little bit of blood on a hand towel in the bathroom, and the genetics match the hair. The blood on the bed and the towel do not match. And sir, our analysts don't think any one could have lost that much blood and survived."_

_"So whose blood is it? If the hair and the towel are Bierce, is the bed Sanders? And if Sanders exsanguinated, how did he get on three airplanes? Isn't there hair on a brush in the apartment? Some other way to get a genetic ID on Sanders?"_

_"All the hair is bleached blond, sir. There's not enough DNA intact to get a read. At least, the sequencers are having problems with both sets of samples."_

_Mulder looked at her image on his phone screen. She was either lying or the Albuquerque office was incompetent, because there had to be enough DNA in the roots of the hairs. He decided to push her. "Semen on the sheets, Nield. Did anyone look for that?"_

_"Oh."_

_"Yeah, oh. Call down to the local office and tell them to get their crime scene unit's collected heads out of their asses."_

_Mulder hung up and looked at his watch. They would be getting in at about 2:00 AM. He looked out the window and saw a sign for the Coconino National Forest. "Bean that fool cat in the head with a brick," he said._

_"Sir?" said Johnson._

_"Old comic strip called Krazy Kat. It had a cat in love with a mouse, and the mouse hated the cat and threw bricks at his head. The cat called them soothing missiles of love. It was funnier than it sounds."_

_"If you say so."_

_"Don't humor me, Agent Johnson," Mulder said. "Let's try this instead. Krycek has been living with the lawyer who was the lead litigator in the Bromfield case. Both of them have disappeared on the eve of the trial. Olympian Chemical owns something called Zeus Genetics, a company that I know was working on--" he doesn't say alien-- "hybrid embryos about twenty years ago." He paused for a minute. "Bierce picks up Sanders in a bar. Sanders bleeds enough that he should be dead and gets on a plane the next day. Bierce shaves his head, probably in a weak attempt at disguise. We're on our way to Sedona because a former double, hell, triple agent may be behind some strange deaths in the art world. You two have any ideas?"_

_"Sounds like an X-file, sir," said Johnson, and Mulder thought she sounded as if she were placating a child._

_"How much do you two know about the X-files?"_

_"They didn't tell you?" Gantt said._

_"Tell me what?"_

_"Agent Johnson and I have been on the X-files for two years. Former Director Skinner briefed us for an entire week on the history of the office."_

_"I didn't even know the X-files were still open. Why didn't you tell me?"_

_"You didn't ask, sir."_

_"So if I say things words like_ alien _or_ super soldier _?"_

_"We'll follow."_

_"Huh."_

_Mulder saw Johnson smiling at her partner._

_"What's so funny?"_

_"Super Agent Mulder, reduced to a one-word answer."_

_Mulder grimaced. He hated being a legend. "Yes, it's been done before. Is Nield part of the office?"_

_Gantt snorted, and Johnson shook her head hard enough that her braids swung. "She was foisted on us from above when you came in. They said you'd need a bigger team than just us."_

_Mulder filed that information away. "So," he said, "I thought we were after a serial killer in the art world. How is this an X-file?"_

_"Some of the victims didn't stay dead."_

_"Super soldiers?" Mulder hoped not. He had worked for a decade to find and kill as many as he could using magnetite. After a year he realized there was at least one other group with the same agenda, but he never knew who they were._

_"Something different, we think. Also, some of the supposed victims were never found, so they're technically missing, although there were witnesses to the murders. Two were found beheaded."_

_"Was the head nearby?"_

_"Yes."_

_"It doesn't seem like a consistent MO," Mulder said, his brain engaging. "So what do you think? Is this a new kind of alien?"_

_Johnson turned to look at him. "What if I said the word_ Immortal _?"_

_Gantt broke in before Mulder could respond. "They have nothing to do with the old Syndicate as far as we can tell. There's recently been a connection between Immortals and aliens, but we think it's a red herring."_

_"Well, not entirely," Johnson said. "Anyway, they heal very quickly, and the only way to kill one is to cut off the head."_

_"So you think Sanders was Immortal?"_

_"Yes," She looked at Gantt. "Now?"_

_"We were going to wait until we checked into the hotel."_

_"I talked to Scully about how to handle him. He'll make us miserable if we try to make him wait."_

_Mulder hated being in the dark. "Wait for what? When did you talk to Mrs. Mulder? Are we after Krycek or not?"_

_Johnson reached into her briefcase and handed Mulder a file. As he took it from her, he noticed the curved edge of a tattoo on her wrist. He looked at the label in the dim illumination of an oncoming set of headlights. "Aleister Chaos?" he said._

_"Kaos, like Taos."_

_The younger agents said nothing as Mulder turned on the car's reading spot and opened the file. The photograph stopped him. It depicted a man square jawed, expressionless. "He's an alien bounty hunter."_

_"That's what former Director Skinner thought. Very few people still alive have seen one."_

_"What's his relationship to this case?"_

_"He started a religion for Immortals."_

~~~~~

I left Sasha asleep, and scrawled a note. "Save me some pizza for breakfast." I dressed quickly and only took the PlaSteel Ivanhoe, reasoning that it was but one block. I didn't anticipate any problems at six o'clock in the morning, and planned to come back quickly to explore this new Sasha. I wanted one more good fuck, with or without weapons, before the real work started.

It was a short walk to MacLeod's hotel. I reached for my phone to call and get the room number, but I had left it behind. I didn't need it. I could feel the buzz from half way down the balcony, and that distinct sense of _MacLeod_ that I had been able to recognize ever since we'd shared that damned double Quickening. I would have to be in full control. MacLeod could read me better than anyone, but I didn't like to think about the implication that our own Quickenings were somehow linked,

"You look worse in person."

I pulled my lip under my top teeth and worked the rings with my tongue. After kissing Sasha with the rings, I understood why people liked them. "I might leave them in."

"Won't that make you popular at the Harvard Club."

"I don't have much time for banter. And you look like hell, too."

"Yes, I'm at my best on four hours of sleep," he said, stepping aside to let me in. "What's going on, Methos? You call me here after almost two decades of silence, tell me some outrageous story, and expect me to believe it."

"I'm not sure what I believe. There appear to be some very old conspiracies that make the Watchers look like amateurs, Mac, but the danger here is a cult, a religion for Immortals."

"Religion?"

"Yes. It's rather like Scientology from what I hear, complete with secret alien origins. Ziest, I think the planet was called. They say it's where we come from. There are some parallels with what they think about Quickenings as well, that they're bad for us, somehow, like spiritual leeches."

"Look, if it's just a stupid belief system, why should I care?"

"MacLeod, what if I told you that someone could take Sean Burn's Quickening from you and put it in a new body."

He looked as if I had hit him with a poleaxe, and I could somehow feel an echo of his shock at the idea, his desire that he could undo that death.

"Would you do it?" I asked.

"How?" he said, taking a set on the bed.

"I don't know, and I don't know if anything of the _person_ returns." I hoped he was listening. I could see him calculating, thinking that he could undo what I believed was his biggest regret. I sat on the chair under the window and leaned in close to him. "MacLeod, if you did that, you would both be lost. Neither you nor Sean would exist. Nor Richie, nor any of them."

He looked at me, his face blank.

"The problem," I said, "is that the cult leader, this Aleister Kaos, can put every Quickening an Immortal has absorbed into a new body. Can you imagine how tempting that is, even if you don't buy the religion?"

He nodded. "How? Does he put them in mortals?"

"The bodies are clones, and they go back to the suppliers as Immortals. They're blank slates, and I think they're being taken to be trained to be an Immortal army. The suppliers, by the way, are my old clients, Olympian Chemical."

MacLeod said nothing, but I could feel him speculate.

"Are you listening to me, child? Kaos might be able to find Sean Burns' Quickening in you, and put it in a new body, but Sean would still be dead. Nothing would change, except that you would be dead, too, and everyone you've ever taken in a challenge would only create more soldiers. An Immortal army, MacLeod. Think of it."

His eyes regained focus. "What do you want me to do?"

"We haven’t got a plan yet. Somehow we need to take out Kaos. Somehow we have to find and deal with the Immortal clones."

"Do you want help?"

"Yes. I have some help already. It's someone who's not one of us, but who wants to make sure that army never marches. He thinks he knows where they are, or knows someone who does."

"Who is it?"

The Imp of the Perverse possessed me. "Go back to sleep. I'm going to go wake up my husband."

He looked at me through his fingers. "You're _married_? To a _man_?"

"Spouse number sixty-nine. The most interesting one yet."

MacLeod pushed me out the door with a look of disgust at my teasing. He had no idea whether to believe me. "Call me when you know more. I'm going back to sleep."

I walked down the balcony from his door, and on my way down the stairs, another Presence hit. I considered running, but it would be too easy to track me back to Sasha.

A figure stepped out from behind one of the square pillars holding up the second floor walkway, and announced, "Blaise Edwards." He looked young, dressed in jeans and a coat, and his weapon was a cutlass, held at his side pointed down. I hoped I could kill him without taking his head and get back to Sasha sooner rather than later, and without taking out the local utility grid. Sasha would not be pleased if I disrupted the cable connection to the hotel.

"Matthew Mason," I said, giving my current identity, "but I'm not interested in a fight."

Edwards sneered. He wore mutton chop side burns and long hair. He had died young. "Then why are you here? To watch that Kaos asshole fleece the stupid, or to take out the stupid ones?"

"Well I can hardly answer your question put that way. It's one of those 'have you stopped beating your wife yet' things. Neither, Blaise Edwards. I'm here on my own business, and not hunting heads."

"Well I am," he said, and the cutlass moved quickly.

He was an idiot. Yes, it was early in the morning, but the location would draw attention for a Quickening. He might be two or three hundred years old, given his choice of weapon, but with that level of indiscretion, he could be as young as he looked.

I had the PlaSteel Ivanhoe out to block him. After a few meetings of our blades, I could tell he was no match for me, but I did not want to take his head here. I didn't want to take his head at all, so I began to back him up to the edge of the parking lot looking for a quick kill and to vanish back into Sasha's bed before Edwards revived. Then I heard, "Freeze! Federal agent!"

I'd gone dangerously soft living as a lawyer. Damn me if I didn't glance to find the voice. There was a man on the second floor walk, and he called, "Bierce! Drop the weapon!" The sound of that name pulled my attention further, and the kid took advantage, slicing open my gut. In reaction, before the pain could register, I swung hard, the composite blade slicing into his neck. Without the weight of metal, it stuck in his vertebrae. My only thought as I died was that at least I would probably revive before he did, but I hoped it wouldn't be in a morgue.

~~~~~

_Mulder was up at dawn, and tried to dress without waking Gantt. Nield had only arranged for two rooms, and he cursed her. He missed his wife, and his routines. Gantt was a nice guy, but Mulder figured that even an accommodating Southern boy would have little tolerance for his nightly habits. Without them, he hadn't slept much._

_He stepped out onto the walkway, thinking that he might get coffee, and heard the sound of banging metal. He looked to see the source, expecting to find someone dealing with the garbage. Instead, two men were having a sword fight below him. One swung a cutlass with the lack of finesse of a movie pirate. The other handled a two-handed broadsword with ease and skill. Something about the broadsword struck Mulder, and he realized it was PlaSteel. That stuff wasn't easy to come by, and certainly not made to order as a medieval weapon._

_These facts registered quickly, and the words "Freeze! Federal Agent!" were out of his mouth before he remembered that his gun was in the hotel room. The one with the PlaSteel turned, and Mulder recognized the nose under the shaved head. "Bierce! Drop the weapon!" he called, then watched as the cutlass sliced, Bierce's entrails spilling as he somehow delivered a counter stroke that cut deep into the other's neck. Both men fell, silent, to the asphalt._

_Mulder turned to get his phone out of the room, but saw Johnson coming from her room wearing a blue robe over flowered pajamas, phone in one hand, gun in the other._

_"Call 911," he said. "Two men down in a sword fight." He turned to the stairs, but stopped at Johnson's hand on his arm._

_"Watch," she said. She took a few photos with her phone's camera, then slipped it into the pocket of her robe. Johnson held her gun loosely as she leaned on the railings._

_"But--" Mulder started to object._

_"They're Immortals, Agent Mulder. Watch."_

_He leaned next to her, and blue sparks of lightning traced over both bodies. "That's Bierce," he said._

_"Which one?"_

_"The one with the shaved head, but I got a good look at his face. It's him."_

_"Interesting," she said. "I wonder if Krycek knew what he was sleeping with."_

_"What happens now?" Mulder could see the wounds on Bierce closing. The sword in the other man's neck seemed to be slowing the healing process._

_"We may get a light show." Johnson turned back toward her room and said, "If your computers or cell phones are plugged in, you might want to go disconnect them."_

_"Why?"_

_"You'll see. Wake up Agent Gantt, too. He'll want to see this."_

_Mulder did as she suggested, and emerged to find her flattened against the wall. Her hand signal told him to do the same. "Bierce is almost up. If he sees us, he won't take the head."_

_"We're going to stand back and let him decapitate someone?"_

_Gantt came out behind Mulder, and answered, "Not much we can do about it."_

_Mulder looked back and forth between the two agents. "Anybody going to explain this?"_

_"After."_

_They heard a grunt, and a tug. Mulder imagined it was Bierce pulling the sword out of the other guy's neck. Then a voice distinctly said, "Damn."_

_The stroke was audible. The following hush was unnatural. And then the lightning started._

_"We can look now. He won't notice."_

_Gantt and Johnson edged over to the railing to look down. Mulder followed, flinching at the explosion of lighting fixtures on the wall of the hotel. A rhombus of fire surrounded Bierce, who shook and swayed as if he were buffeted by a storm, and perhaps he was. The air was still around Mulder and the other agents, but lightning curled around Bierce, striking snake-like into his eyes, mouth and ears. The corpse of the other man lay at Bierce's feet, separated from its head by a good two yards._

_The lightning went on for a full minute, then a transformer blew, and it all died down. Johnson pulled Mulder back. "Don't let him see you."_

_"He just cut off a man's head, and then the power lines went crazy. We have to arrest him and get him to a hospital." Mulder turned and ran toward the stairs._

_"Agent Mulder!" he heard Gantt call, then Johnson, but he ignored them. By the time he reached the parking lot, Bierce was gone._

  



	8. Wotan's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone ends up in the same room. Eventually.

>   
>  _Damnation, no matter how many times you get your fingers burned, you have to trust people._   
>  The Door Into Summer   
> 

There was no one visible as I came out of it, but I ran, as silently as I could and hid, sliding around corners until I reached Sasha's hotel. I could have left Edwards there half-decapitated, but I knew from previous experiments that it would end badly. Our necks don't heal well, and my sword had been halfway through his. He would have been paralyzed at the least, and I couldn't leave something like that lying around. There was no sign of the person who recognized me, but I had heard someone call his name. Mulder.

I entered the room to find Sasha awake and aiming a gun at me.

"Oh, it's you." He relaxed and put the gun on a side table. "What was all that noise?"

"Me, I'm sad to say." I turned into the bathroom, and turned on the shower. I washed the sword in the tub, then myself. Blaise Edwards had been a horny kid, killed young and Immortal less than twenty years. He had pirate fantasies, and thus the cutlass. The memory of teenage hormones surged through me. I soaped my dick, intending to jack off, but the curtain pulled aside and there was Sasha fingering the T-shirt I had borrowed. It was torn and bloody, and worse, there was bile on it from where my guts had opened.

"What happened?"

"Some idiot challenged me. I didn't mean to kill him. I mean, I meant to kill him, but not take his head. I got distracted," I gestured at the T-shirt. "My stroke went wrong. I had to finish it."

"Get out," Sasha said, and closed the curtain.

I rinsed, got out of the shower, and pulled a towel around my waist. I wasn't thrilled that it was visibly tented, but the blast of cold water I'd given myself had made no difference.

Sasha sat on the bed, and looked up as I walked into the room. "That turns you on, killing someone?"

"Not always, but this time, yes. The Quickening you absorb can affect you."

"How did you get hurt?"

"I was stupid. I heard a voice and looked away. I guess the last seven years have made me lose my edge."

My phone went off where I had left it on the side table. I picked it up as Sasha turned away, and saw MacLeod in the peephole.

"What?" I answered.

He looked relieved when he saw my face. "Was that you?"

"Yes."

"You could have been seen."

"I could have been killed. Lecture me another day," I said, and closed the phone.

Sasha turned back toward me and picked up the conversation. "You could have been killed?" he echoed.

I nodded, not liking the memory of my idiotic lapse, but primed to behave like an ass. "But he didn't. Get over it."

Sasha came off the bed in a leap, and before I could react, he had me pinned to the door with his forearm on my neck. His whisper was loud and harsh. "He could have killed you!"

I let go of the towel and slid one leg up around his thighs. I rasped through the pressure on my throat, "So remind me of why I'm happy to be alive."

He stood back, and I dropped my leg. "Don't take risks like that," he said, turning back toward the bed.

I followed him. "I lived a long time without a mother hen. I'm not looking for protection. I want--"

"I know what you want." He sounded tired and angry.

"You don't know anything about me," I said to his back, my own anger rising.

"I learned a thing or three in seven years with you, _husband_."

I threw him onto the bed. "Seven years isn't even a statistically significant amount of my life, _child_!" Straddling his waist with his throat in my hands, I was full of murderous rage at having the word thrown back at me, torn between killing him and forcing my dick into that pretty mouth, and it suddenly hit me that I was acting like an adolescent and talking like an MBA. I couldn't help but laugh.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I took a head," I said, moving off him, ruffling his hair apologetically. "He was young, dumb and…."

"Full of cum?" Sasha finished, looking pointedly at my groin.

"You have no idea. Remember being seventeen?"

"How long will this last?"

"Until I get him settled."

"Then let's test that teenage refractory period," he said, and there it was again in his eyes--the pure predator.

~~~~~

_Agent Johnson was in the restaurant before Mulder, coffee steaming in front of her and thumbs moving rapidly on her hiptop computer. He slid into the booth opposite her and signaled for coffee as he waited for her to finish. His patience did not outlast her typing._

_"The body's gone," he said._

_She nodded, not taking her eyes off the screen. "That's what happens."_

_"What, it disappears on its own?"_

_"No, the Immortals have some connection with a group of mortals who seem to think it's their job to clean up after the challenge."_

_"Challenge? That's what that was? Like a duel?"_

_"That's one way of looking at it."_

_"Bierce is Immortal. Sanders is probably Immortal. What about Krycek?"_

_"He ages," she said, glancing at him._

_"So not."_

_"Not."_

_Mulder nodded to himself. There had to be some other explanation as to why he had seen Krycek shot in the head, fall over as if dead, and show up twenty-five years later. "So what does Krycek have to do with Kaos?"_

_"Just a minute, please."_

_He watched her type, and the edge of the tattoo caught his eye again, two circles with dots between them, maroon red against her dark skin. "Nice ink," he said._

_"Just a minute, please."_

_Mulder looked at the menu, chose something, and looked for the waitress. Gantt came in and slid into the booth next to Johnson._

_"The locals say this kind of thing happens all the time," he said, his North Carolina accent having deepened since they left Washington. "The activity is fairly recent, though--just in the last year and a half or so, and increasing. Theories include freak micro storms due to the effects of global warming in the desert, activity of spirits offended by the new cult in town, and the effects of building phone towers next to the vortexes."_

_"Vortices," Mulder corrected. "What are they?"_

_"Both are correct," Johnson said, then continued, "They're supposed to be power centers, according to the local flakes. There are areas with a lot of iron in the rocks, and tradition has that they're spiritual centers."_

_"So I guess that explains why no one batted an eye this morning."_

_Johnson put away her hiptop. "There are a couple of places where we think there is a lot of Immortal activity. Paris used to be one, but it's died down in recent decades. Seacouver up on the West Coast. Sedona only in the last year and a half or so."_

_They ordered breakfast. "Krycek and the Immortals?" Mulder prompted after the waiter had left._

_"From what we can tell," said Gantt, "he wants the clone army destroyed."_

_"And the murders?"_

_"He's looking for information. Not all of them were Krycek. You were right about the inconsistent MO. It ain't one person. He's been using art shipments to move things and information around, and we think he was directed toward Kaos and the clones."_

_"By whom?"_

_Johnson and Gantt exchanged a glance._

_"There's a blond woman, a former UN official._ "

~~~~~

I lay curled up against Sasha, feeling the last of the cuts and bruises heal. Near as I could tell, he had beaten me in part because he was angry that I risked my life, and in part because he could. I let him, choking on his cock as he fucked my mouth and coming closer to death by asphyxiation than he knew. He bit my mouth and tasted blood and the electricity of my Quickening, and bruised his knuckles beating me down. It had been a very long time since I'd mixed violence and sex that way, so different from the near ritual cutting of Michael. This had been rough and spontaneous. He needed it, and in my own way, I liked it. I had at least demonstrated that short refractory period.

The afterglow was interrupted by Sasha's phone. I handed it to him, then moved out of camera range. I glanced at the screen to see the image of the blond woman. "I'm not alone," was the first thing Sasha said.

"I see."

"Plans are changing," he said.

"Is everything going to hell?" It sounded like a catch phrase.

Sasha gave a single snort of laughter. "No, things have got infinitely better."

"Your heavily armed friend?" Her accent was faint, almost pan-European.

"Maybe."

"What do we do now?"

"Wait for me to call you."

I slid off the bed and headed toward the bathroom. I was right not to believe that she was just a casual sex partner.

"I'm not good at waiting," she said.

"I know."

"There's something else you should know." Her voice was measured, now, a cadence that demanded attention.

"Oh?"

"DCI is in town. The X-files are open. Mulder saw your friend take a head. Ciao."

The screen went dark.

Sasha sat for a moment, then closed the phone with an odd one-hand maneuver that looked graceful through long practice. "You didn't tell me you were seen."

"I wasn't sure. I thought I heard someone say they were a federal agent, and other voices call for an Agent Mulder when I died, but when I revived, no one was around. Who is Mulder? " I sat down on the second bed and looked at him. Sasha looked down, his whole body vibrating.

"That's not a question I can answer in ten words or less."

"Fine. Who's the woman, really?"

"My source for information on the clones."

That made sense. Spy with benefits? "What do I need to know about Mulder?"

He didn't answer. Instead he got up and said, "Let's get a shower."

I followed him. "In all that conversation last night, you lied about her, and you never told me you had specific plans."

We stood in front of the bathroom mirror, and he looked at my reflection. "I wasn't sure whether to get you involved. I didn't know how you would be."

"How am I?"

He turned and took my face in his hand. "Dangerous. Sexy. Fuckable. So much more than I dreamed, even watching you all these years when you got dressed with your guns and your knives. Last year I learned what you are."

He had no idea what I was, but I left his illusion intact, reached for his head and leaned to kiss him deeply. It served my purpose. With every confession I would get a better read on what he was.

"You have an ally, the woman," I said. "I brought help as well."

"That's good," he said, letting go of my face and pulling away, "but there's a roadblock. There's Mulder."

"And what does Mulder want?"

"Me dead."

"Is that the only reason he's here?"

"Probably not."

"Sasha," I said, "he recognized me as Mathias Bierce."

That stopped him. "Then it _is_ going to hell." He sat down on the edge of the bath.

"Who is Mulder?"

"My former partner in the former FBI." Ah. That nugget filled in many blanks. "He believes in little green men."

"So what? Since Tuesday," I said, "so do I."

"Very funny. If he's here and out of retirement, I must have been the bait."

"Did you leave because of the SUVs moving in across the street?" If Sasha had been FBI, it explained a number of his skills.

Sasha looked up. "What?"

I knelt on the bath mat in front of him. "The old man's driver I told you about, Hobbes, thought that the feds had set up surveillance. Now I think they did it to flush you out. Maybe me, too. Maybe I was a bonus." I tilted his chin up to look at me. "Could they be here about the clones as well? Because of Kaos?"

He still looked pale and would not meet my eyes.

"You've lost control of the situation, haven't you?" I asked. "Something is going on that you did not expect."

He didn't move, so I stood up and backhanded him.

"Get over it," I said, watching with satisfaction as his cheek turned red. "What do we salvage here?"

He put his hand to his face. "Us?" he said, and looked at me from under his eyelashes.

Oh, he was good. Romance and love, and please get me out of this mess, you big strong unkillable man, you. I wasn't falling for it, tempting as it was, but it would serve me to let him think that I might.

"I have a feeling we won't be safe if that army gets built." I sounded hard and demanding. "You want to salvage our _marriage_ , then we settle this first."

He looked as if I'd hit him again. I was impressed, but the flicker of calculation only confirmed my decision.

"I have a federal agent who knows I'm Immortal, and a guy who could take apart my Quickening if he caught me. Plus an army of soldiers with stolen Quickenings. I'd rather go to Tibet, but it's no use hiding out if this keeps up. Get your blond woman here. I'm calling MacLeod."

I moved to leave the bathroom, but he took my hand. "Can we please get cleaned up first? Then, we'll do whatever you say."

I didn't believe that for a minute, but he had a point. We reeked of sex. I leaned past him and started the shower, then climbed in after him. I washed him, feeling strangely tender, but I wondered just what he was planning.

When we were dry and dressed, we made our phone calls.

~~~~~

_The waiter had just cleared their dishes when a big man placed a chair next to the booth, spun it backwards, and sat on it facing them, his arms folded over the metal chair back._

_"Good morning, Agent Mulder." He had a slight accent that Mulder couldn't place. "Care to introduce me to your friends?"_

_Mulder automatically looked at Johnson and Gantt. Gantt was on alert, hand reaching for his gun, but Johnson was visibly shaken, her face caught between astonishment, recognition, and something that made Mulder wonder if the guy were someone famous. She had even put her hands in her lap. He looked over. The man was handsome enough to be a movie star, but Mulder didn't recognize him. "Have we met?"_

_"Duncan MacLeod." The man offered his hand. Mulder took it awkwardly._

_"It seems you already know my name. This is Agent Gantt." Gantt withdrew his hand from his coat, and shook MacLeod's with a wary look. "Agent Johnson."_

_"Eryna Johnson?" MacLeod asked._

_Johnson nodded once. Mulder had never seen her speechless before._

_"We had a mutual friend," MacLeod said, offering his hand._

_"Joe Dawson," she answered, placing her hand momentarily in his, and with that seemed to recover her poise._

_"He told me one of his protégés had joined DCI. He spoke highly of you."_

_"I'm pleased to hear it. He is still missed."_

_Mulder didn't like being out of the conversation. "How do you two know each other?"_

_"We don't."_

_"Just a mutual friend," Johnson said. "Small world."_

_Mulder had no idea how they had made the connection based only on her last name. He let his mind play back over the last minute and said, "Tattoo."_

_"Pardon me?"_

_"You recognized her tattoo. What is it?"_

_The man looked to Johnson, and let her answer. "I told you over breakfast that it was a tribal thing. His friend Dawson was in the same tribe."_

_Mulder let it go for the moment. "What can we do for you Mr. MacLeod?"_

_"What would you say if I offered to take you to Mathias Bierce and Sasha Lisitsa?"_

_"Why would you do that?"_

_"Why are you after them?"_

_"That's Homeland Security business, Mr. MacLeod."_

_MacLeod cocked his head to one side, and smiled. He spoke softly. "I think we're all on the same side."_

_"Krycek, Sasha Lisitsa, is only ever on his own side."_

_"Then maybe it would be better to say that you have common goals._

_"And what might those goals be, Mr. MacLeod?"_

_"Do you really want to talk about it here?" MacLeod gestured around the restaurant, still smiling as if he had all the time and knew all the secrets._

_It irritated Mulder. "Where do you suggest we go?"_

_MacLeod's grin broadened. "Let's go see Matty and Sasha," he said, stressing the names in a way that veered toward camp, but brooked no argument. He stood up, moved the chair back to the table from which he'd taken it, and stood aside with the courtesy of a manor butler. "After you. I've taken the liberty of paying your bill."_

_Gantt and Johnson looked to Mulder for guidance. He shrugged and slid out of the booth, trusting that they would follow. As they left the restaurant, MacLeod took the lead. Johnson stepped forward, walking next to him. Mulder listened to their conversation._

_"Is Bierce also Adam Pierson?" Johnson asked._

_"You want me to do your job for you?"_

_"Sorry, but we'd lost track of him. Just looking for confirmation. I didn't mean to--" She sounded flustered, which was not something Mulder would have expected of her. Just who was MacLeod?_

_"It's all right. You've never met one of us before, have you?"_

_"No."_

_One of us? Mulder thought, but the connection was made in his brain before he finished the question. "You're Immortal."_

_"Sasha told me you were bright," MacLeod answered, looking back over his shoulder, eyes glinting with humor._

_Mulder felt Gantt tense next to him. "Holy crap," he said._

_No one else spoke as MacLeod led them to a hotel a block away, then up to one of the rooms. He knocked. "It's me. I have them."_

_Mulder drew his gun and walked in, following FBI procedure for entering hostile spaces. Krycek sat at the desk aiming a gun at the door, and a blond woman perched on the end of the bed. He aimed his own gun at Krycek. "Nice to see you again, Marita," he said to the woman. "Krycek. You look better than the last time I saw you."_

_"Yes, that would be because I'm upright and not left for dead in the Quantico parking garage."_

_Kyrcek did look good. His hair was thinning and silver at the temples, but he was fit, and his face barely lined. It made Mulder more conscious of his gray head, the heavy lines in his forehead and around his mouth and the small pot belly that he couldn't seem to lose. At least he had more hair. "Where's Bierce?" Mulder asked, and then felt the gun barrel on his neck._

_"I'm right here." Mulder glanced over to see the newly shaved head and lip rings of Mathias Bierce. "Put your gun away. Slowly. The first step in working together is establishing mutual trust. I'll let you keep your weapons if you promise not to kill anyone in this room."_

_Mulder decided to agree not to kill anyone in the room, but reserved the right to shoot anyone in the room at a later date in another location. He nodded and holstered his gun, and when he looked back, Krycek had shifted his aim to Gantt and Johnson. "Hands where I can see them," Krycek said, as they were herded into the room by MacLeod, who had produced a Japanese sword from out of the air._

_Marita Covarrubias spoke. "Well, this is not what I envisioned as a start for this project, but I suppose it was to be expected. Hello, Agent Mulder. It's been a long time."_


	9. Wotan's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one wins the pissing contest.

>   
>  _...one of those frightening, cold, bitter, formally polite, grown-men quarrels of the sort that used to lead inevitably to pistols at dawn._   
>  Podkayne of Mars   
> 

Covarrubias said something to Mulder, but I was looking at MacLeod.

Mulder was pre-Immortal.

MacLeod gave a short nod and a twist of his mouth that said he was terribly amused. He looked at the two officers with him, then back at me, raising his left hand with a twist of the wrist. One of them was a Watcher. The agents, a slender white man with a military haircut and a curved black woman with braids, looked nervous.

"If we're going to establish trust," said Mulder, "can we put the guns and the, uh, swords away?"

I pulled the gun back from his neck, then slipped it into the back of my jeans. Sasha put his on the desk, within reach. MacLeod lowered the katana, but kept it in hand.

Covarrubias took on her best diplomatic manner. "It's a little crowded and I'm sure we won't be comfortable, so let's not waste time. Please, find a seat, or stand if you like." We had agreed that hers was the most complete information, and so let her run the show. Mulder knew her, and while he probably did not trust her, they had at least never tried to kill each other. Sasha thought it might go better this way.

I remained standing, as did the agent with the military cut. Mulder took the upholstered chair by the window, and immediately sprawled, rubbing the spot on his neck where I had threatened him, and glancing around the room. The black woman took a seat on the end of the desk, as far from Sasha as she could be and still sit. MacLeod leaned on the door after sheathing his katana in his coat.

"Now what?" asked Mulder.

Covarrubias answered. It was easy to see why she had done well in the UN because she spoke as if she were in a boardroom, and not this over-full mid-range hotel. "We know the following facts. An alien bounty hunter operating under the name Aleister Kaos has established a cult following here in Sedona."

"He's not the first one to go rogue," Mulder interrupted. "Maybe he's trying to pull off the old UFO cultist stuff. It's not like he can't bring them miracles."

Covarrubias nodded, but it looked like a diplomat's acknowledgement of an obvious truth. "Among his adherents are mortals impressed by his ability to heal, and Immortals who seem to have bought into something that is considered inner circle. Kaos can, by some means, take the Quick--," and here she stumbled on the word, because she had found Immortals harder to accept than the idea of colonizing aliens.

"Of course, according to Kaos," Mulder said, "the Immortals were colonizing aliens. The Quickenings apparently mess up their ability to return home, so they're stuck here until he lightens the load for them."

"Yes, he takes the Quickenings," she tried to continue, "and transfers them to new bodies, creating new Immortals. The bodies are clones, supplied by--"

"Zeus Genetics," Mulder finished. "This is nice. Can you tell us something we don't know?"

"I am merely assuring that we operate under the same assumptions."

"Skip the assumptions. Why did the bodyguard bring me here?"

MacLeod snorted at the characterization, but I remembered how the clone with his face had given me the same impression.

Sasha answered Mulder, so angry and scornful I thought he would blow the plan. "You are so self centered. I thought marriage and a family would have changed you. How are little Walter and little Samantha, anyway? They're in college now, aren't they? Duke and Catholic University? Do they know about their brother William?"

If Mulder had children, he was a cuckold or they were adopted. Immortals cannot breed, but I knew one needn't be the sire to be a true father. Mulder had raised children. That told me more about him.

"Enough," said Mulder, in a voice that was as cold and final as an angered king. Or a father who has reached his limit.

Sasha continued. "If you weren't in town, Fox, we still would have invited Agents Johnson and Gantt, because this is one big fat honking X-file. Remember those?"

A first name, or a nickname? I did not know, but Mulder was the Fox of Sasha's name and gallery. I realized one thing, then. Sasha loved him, complete and unrequited. Mulder knew, and it was a mere annoyance. I wasn't sure how I felt about that.

"Fine." Mulder answered Sasha with matching contempt. "Clone army. Alien bounty hunter as messiah. Immortals. What do you want us to do about it? I'm supposed to be investigating murders of art dealers, some of which you are suspected of committing."

Covarrubias stepped in. "Please gentleman, I think we have a common goal. We do not want to see the clone army deployed, and we do not want this Kaos to be able to make more Immortal soldiers."

"Who are you working for, Marita?" Mulder asked. Before she could answer, a phone rang. It was Mulder's, and he looked at the caller ID and answered without preamble. "You never found anyone who knew Mathias Bierce before Harvard." Mulder looked at me, then away. "Any word on Sanders? Olympian?" He listened for a moment. The phone appeared to have sophisticated sound imaging. I heard nothing. "Got it. Thank you, Nield."

Covarrubias' head turned at the sound of the name, but Mulder didn't notice. He closed his phone and looked at me again. "You're Immortal, too. I've just been told that Mathias Bierce had no existence before his appearance at Harvard. Anyone else have anything to confess?"

MacLeod looked at the female agent. "Eryna?"

She looked over at him, eyes widening at what he was asking. "It's not worth my life, Mr. MacLeod."

"I think under the circumstances, Joe might disagree. You don't want an Immortal army any more than we do."

She looked panicked, and I understood. To discuss the Watchers would be against everything she was ever taught. To her credit, she took a breath, and said, "If I can see where it will help, I'll say something."

That had Mulder's attention, and the other one, the tall agent, who must be Gantt. He looked at the black woman with questions in his eyes.

"Perhaps some introductions are in order?" I said. This was not going the way we had scripted it before sending MacLeod to fetch the DCI agents.

Mulder jabbed his finger at Covarrubias. "Marita Covarrubias, former UN official."

She nodded.

"Okay." Mulder pointed at everyone in the room in turn. "Alex Krycek, rat boy. Agent Johnson, who has revealed a secret life outside the DCI. MacLeod, Immortal. Agent Gantt, X-files. Mathias Bierce, Immortal. I'm Mulder. Now what?"

"So much detail and nuance lost, Agent Mulder," I said. "Sasha led me to believe you could be much more subtle."

"Who says I'm not being subtle?" I didn't like the look on his face, as if he were trying to start some sort of pissing contest, but it was a mask. I began to understand Sasha's assessment of Mulder, and to form an intense dislike that I told myself had no jealousy in it.

"Wheels within wheels, blah, blah, blah," said MacLeod. "Can we get to the part where we stop this thing?" I could feel his impatience, and I shared it.

"We have a two-fold problem," said Covarrubias. "Kaos, and the soldiers that already exist."

Mulder said, "Do we have a weapon that can kill Kaos? I haven't seen one of those fancy alien ice picks in years."

"There was one in the X-files storage a long time ago," said Gantt, "according to records it was removed at the request of the Pentagon and sent to Heracles Composites for analysis."

I noticed a few meaningful glances between Mulder and the other agents. Heracles was part of Olympian, which meant something to me, but what would it mean to them? I looked at Sasha, but he was looking at Mulder.

"And do we know where the clone army is being assembled? How many of them there are already?" asked MacLeod.

"I know how many," said Covarrubias. "There are about seven hundred, certainly fewer than a thousand."

"And the plan?" asked Mulder. "If they're Immortal, how do we kill them? How do you cut the heads off that many people?"

"I don't think they're people," I said.

"Yes, objectify the other if it makes it easier to kill."

"Shut up, Mulder," I said, impatient with his lecturing tone. "They are clones with stolen power. They were not born, they have no life experience but what they've been given by the old men, and they are not people. They are things."

He shrugged. "That's still a lot of corpses. Plus, they'll fight back."

MacLeod said, "Eryna, your _tribe_ has security teams. They could help."

"The Quickenings?" she asked. "What would happen to them?"

"One of us could take them, if we were protected."

"I'd rather let them go," I said. MacLeod didn't say anything, but more than his expression told me he thought otherwise. He wasn't after the power, I knew, but if anyone should have a sudden addition of some seven hundred Quickenings, give or take, it was probably the world's biggest Boy Scout. I nodded and said, "So we split up into two teams. One takes out the clones, and one goes after Kaos."

"Does anyone have any idea what would happen with that many Quickenings going off at once?" asked Johnson. "There's no record of anything like it."

That statement got her a look from Gantt.

"The Gathering," MacLeod said. "It could trigger it."

"Yes," I said, "and the scientists on the Manhattan project had to calculate whether the test detonation would ignite the entire atmosphere." I fell into the memory of that tense moment. "They went off into their offices to get their slide rules to do the calculations on their own, to make sure their answers agreed. Except for Von Neumann. He did it in his head. Brilliant man."

"You worked on the Manhattan Project?" asked MacLeod.

"The entire world was at war. It was the safest place to be at the time, and I'm good at maths."

"I shouldn't be surprised that you helped build the ultimate weapon. That must have upped your total kills."

I did not understand why he was bringing up a twenty-five year old hurt about my past, one he said he'd gotten over. "So I was Death. Oppenheimer was Shiva. So what? Stow it, MacLeod. You're about to commit genocide."

"I thought you said the clones were things."

"I've been a lawyer lately. My arguments are flexible."

"Gentlemen," said Covarrubias. I was chagrined that I'd fallen into my old habits of arguing with MacLeod. Everyone else in the room was looking at us as well, and Sasha had an expression that made me think he was forming baseless assumptions about my relationship with MacLeod.

"Okay, fine. We could trigger the Gathering," I said.

"What is that?" Mulder asked.

"Immortals believe that in the end, there can be only one. The Gathering is rumored to be the time that we all feel compelled to come together and fight until only one is left." I shrugged at the expression on Sasha's face. "Hasn't happened in my lifetime, but I'm just a young pup."

MacLeod rolled his eyes.

"How old are you, Mr. Bierce?" said Mulder, "And how old is Mr. MacLeod?"

We didn't have to answer. Johnson stepped in. "Duncan MacLeod is about four hundred and fifty. Mr. Bierce was known as Adam Pierson in the early 1990s, and he looks no different, now."

So, the Watchers still did not know who I was.

"Can we get back to planning, here?" Sasha said. "Matt and I will go after Kaos. I think we can take him."

"Two against one. You'd like those odds, leaving the rest of us about a hundred to one against."

"Closer to two hundred," I said, "assuming four of you and eight hundred of them." MacLeod grimaced at me. "I like to be a realist."

"Where are the clones?" Gantt asked, looking at Covarrubias.

"In an artificial cave system to the north."

"Military? Government?"

"No, Mr. Mulder. In fact, the current version of the Syndicate has no ties to the government of the United States. There was too much infiltration by the super soldiers, and the current President does not believe in extraterrestrial phenomena."

"Nice. To what government do they have ties?"

"No one."

"Uh-huh." Mulder said flatly. I didn't think he believed her. I don't think I did either. "I want one of my people on the team that gets Kaos. Johnson, where will your tribal connections be most useful?"

"Probably with the clones, but I don't know what, if anything, they will do."

"Then Gantt goes with Krycek and Bierce."

It felt strange to hear that name attached to Sasha, and I had shed Bierce in the last day. "I think we'll do better alone," I said.

Gantt looked at me, then Sasha, seeing only my shaved head and the lip rings and the silver at his temple. "I can handle myself."

"I'm sure you can," I said, "but we don't know you."

"I'll go with you, then," Mulder said.

"No." Sasha's voice was firm. "We'll take Gantt."

"Having trust issues, Krycek?" Mulder asked.

MacLeod had no patience for the posturing. "Eryna, how soon can you find out if your tribe will support this?"

She pulled out a hiptop computer. "I'll ask. You know how the council is, so I'll start at the top and ask the others anyway." She began to type.

"What plan do we have for dealing with Kaos?"

"We find him, and we kill him," I answered Mulder.

"Have you ever been up against one of these? They're stronger than any human, and they can change shape."

"Then I will be Hope," I said, remembering an old story of two shape-shifters in battle.

Mulder looked at me for a moment. "It won't be a battle of wits."

So he knew the reference. "There is a way to kill them, yes?"

"But we don't have one of the devices. Gantt said it was removed."

"I'll improvise," I shrugged, and looked over to find Sasha watching us. He saw me looking and swallowed. I turned back to Mulder. "If I'm right, the device that went to Heracles was reverse engineered into PlaSteel."

Mulder nodded, but he said, "These bounty hunters can change shape. They heal extremely fast. The only way we know to kill one is with the spike weapon, which is of extraterrestrial origin. There's no way to be certain that PlaSteel is the same thing."

"I heal extremely fast, there's only one way to kill me, and I'll take that bet."

"It's your funeral," Mulder said, and turned in the chair to face Covarrubias.

"Huh," said Johnson, and everyone looked to her. She frowned, typed more, and lowered the hiptop. She addressed MacLeod. "Our tribal chief says that this is out of our purview."

"Then I'll see what I can round up from _my_ tribe," he answered. I shook my head at him, but he shrugged.

"Let me see what the others say," she said, and went back to her hiptop.

As she typed, MacLeod pulled out his cell phone. I got his attention and shook my head again.

"What?"

"I don't think this needs to spread among Immortals," I said. "We can kill the clones with fire. That heals slowest. If there are enough mortals with guns and swords, they can keep them dead and cut off the heads."

"Even if it's only seven hundred, that's a lot of heads. It could take days."

Johnson looked up, smiling. "My superiors said no, but my colleagues said yes."

"That was fast," I said. "How many and how soon can they be here?"

"About fifty, and two days."

"Who are these colleagues, Agent Johnson?" asked Mulder. "Other people with tattoos?"

"Yes, sir."

"If it's two days," said Sasha, "do we wait to go after Kaos?"

"We probably should," said MacLeod.

"Right," Sasha nodded. "Maintain surprise, gather intel and improve the plan."

"What do we do in the mean time?" Covarrubias asked.

"Weren't you supposed to head back to New York today?" Sasha asked. He sounded pointed. "You tell us where the caves are, and we'll take it from here."

"I can help."

Sasha looked at her feet with high-heeled shoes, then scanned up. Her clothes were chosen to appear casual, but they were expensive. "You're not the rugged type."

She looked offended, but in the end her diplomatic instincts prevailed. She said nothing, but that did not guarantee her acquiescence.

"All right," said Mulder. "Johnson will coordinate with her tribe and MacLeod to help take out the clones. Gantt, Krycek and Bierce will coordinate to locate Kaos and find out how to get close to him. I'll see if I can get any more inside information from some old sources."

Sasha, MacLeod and I exchanged looks, but we tacitly agreed to let Mulder think he was in charge. "Can we break up this party?" I said. "I have a few things I need to do."

"Fine. We'll meet up again after lunch? Mid afternoon?"

"Three o'clock," I agreed. "Somewhere more roomy. With beer. I noticed a brewpub on the north side of town. They have an outdoor tent."

"All right."

"My flight from Phoenix is in the evening, but if we meet at two o'clock, I can join you," said Covarrubias.

We waited for Mulder to answer. "Fine with me," he said.

"Now, out with all of you," I said.

I moved over to stand behind Sasha and put my hand on his neck. He reached up and took my fingers in his, watching Mulder watch us. MacLeod had a smirk on his face that I could barely help but mirror. I leaned down, and Sasha kissed my cheek before looking back at Mulder's careful non-expression.

No more words were spoken until the door was closed.

"We have an errand to run," I said.

"Oh?"

I decided not to surprise him by simply driving to the town clerk's office, and so knelt down in front on him, holding both his right hand and his prosthetic. "Would you like to make it legal?"

"What?"

"Marry me. You're my husband in heart. Let's make it in fact."

He reached out with his right hand, fingertips touching the place on my forehead where he had split my skin by slamming my face on the corner of the nightstand. "What would it change?"

"Nothing. It's already been changed," I said, taking his hand and biting gently on the heel of his thumb.

"I beat the crap out of you."

"MacLeod would disagree. He thinks I'm entirely full of crap. You'd have a long way to go to beat it all out of me."

"I'm not joking," he said.

I looked at him carefully, trying to decide where he wanted to take me. Would he play the regretful abuser? Had he any regrets? "Sasha, I'm not joking, either." I deliberately echoed his words, needing him to follow me, not twist the situation in ways I hadn't planned. His look of repentance was not what I expected. In response I said, "Did you, or did you not notice the orgasms, plural, that I had?"

He sighed and looked away, and for a moment, I almost gave in to my wish to believe him. I put a hand on his face to turn him back to me. "Marry me."

"Does Sasha marry Matty, or Krycek marry whoever you are today?" His note of scorn was just enough to let me know he was playing for time to see how serious I was. I never joke about marriage.

"I think Matty has to stay dead," I answered. "Just try to remember I'm called Matthew Mason, from Eugene, Oregon." I rose from my knees and extended a hand to him.

"Will you tell me your real name?" he asked.

"I don't have one," I lied. "Not one I remember."

He took my hand in a gesture of concession. "What does MacLeod call you?"

"Old man, mostly."

"You're older than him?" I nodded. "I've been wasting five hundred years of experience on vanilla sex?" he asked.

"Not so vanilla," I said, touching the spot on my forehead.

We walked toward the door. Sasha stopped me before I could open it. "Thank you," he said.

"For what?"

"For asking. I don't think I said yes, so, here it is. Yes."

He kissed me, and I could feel some of the same desperation and relief that he had shown the night before, the way he reacted when I first used the word husband. He was planning somehow to use our relationship, I knew, but that didn't mean he did not also find it to be a gift.

~~~~~

The marriage was civil and fast. I made him take me to dinner after the meeting at the brewpub, and then we relaxed, finishing beers on the balcony of his room. A rumble started to the south. I felt something strange, and stood to see better. We watched as lightening whipped in circles on a hilltop and rose in a spiral high into the night sky.

Sasha leaned against me. "I've never seen anything like it. I didn't know lightening could strike up."

"That's not a strike." I thought about what Michael had told me and said, "That's Kaos. He's beheaded one of us up on a vortex."

"Why?"

"According to his little religion, it sets us free from the burden of the Quickening, so we can go home to our native planet."

Sasha turned to look at me. "You didn't tell me you were an alien."

"I don't think I am, but I hear that's the story Kaos tells. I think it's warmed over Scientology, and about as believable. From what I've heard, it's easier for him if the Immortal is willing." The thought disgusted me.

"Hmm," he said, and settled back against me once more. The spiral of lightning detached from the earth and flew upward, dissipating high into the night sky. It made me feel a melancholy I did not want to encourage. Fortunately, distraction was at hand.

I reached my arms around Sasha to draw the knife from my forearm sheath, and trailed the point down his cheek. "My turn?"

"Let's play trades," he said, boyish and evil, and drawing a knife of his own.


	10. Wotan's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People start to ~~die~~ get killed. What, you thought this was a nice story?

>   
>  _There wasn't any way to be safe; just being alive was deadly dangerous... fatal, in the end._   
>  Door into Summer   
> 

_Mulder didn't like the day of downtime, and he didn't like the fact that Nield was not answering her phone. He drove with Johnson in a rented jeep provided by some of her tribe, as she still called them. They were moving in now, armed with bombs and other incendiary devices procured in part by Krycek._

_There was no stealth in their approach, but they were relying on Corrivubias' intelligence that the clones formed their own guard, with only the Syndicate's trainers to supervise them. Johnson looked up from the terrain map Marita had provided. "Here," she said, pointing off to the right. "Park there. This is the rendezvous. The others should be here within the hour."_

_He pulled up on a flat place between ridges, one rising ahead of them, and one falling toward a valley below. Four other vehicles followed, parking beneath the scrubby, tough-looking pines. MacLeod walked over to him as soon as he emerged. "Let me lead this. I have a bit more military experience than you."_

_"I thought that was the plan."_

_"Yes, but you've been demonstrating a remarkable tendency to take over, or at best ignore others' suggestions."_

_It wasn't anything Mulder hadn't heard before. "In two days you learned that?"_

_"I figured it out in the first thirty minutes," MacLeod said, surveying the surrounding area, "but it wasn't polite to say so."_

_Mulder had no answer for him, and MacLeod wouldn't have listened anyway. They turned to watch two more Jeeps pull up. MacLeod walked over to where Johnson waited for the new arrivals, and Mulder followed._

_He watched more members of Johnson's tribe emerge from the cars, and observed their reactions to MacLeod. The first impression Johnson had given him held true--they looked at him and whispered as if he were a rock star, a video idol. Mulder leaned over to Johnson. "So, this tribe of yours has a thing for Immortals."_

_"You could say that."_

_"You're the people who clean up after their challenges."_

_She did not turn to look at him. "You could say that."_

_"Fans of death duels, or something?"_

_At that, Johnson closed her eyes for a moment, ignoring his scorn, then stepped to greet the newcomers._

_MacLeod turned his head to look at Mulder over his shoulder. "She won't violate her oath, and I won't either, but you're wrong."_

_"She's a DCI officer. Where are her loyalties?"_

_"They rarely conflict, I'm sure." MacLeod turned away, looking up the trail toward their destination, frowning._

_"Something wrong?"_

_"I want to scout the entrance before the rest of the group arrives."_

_"Mind if I come with you?"_

_"Were you trained by Lakota Sioux trackers?"_

_"Not exactly."_

_"Then wait here."_

_MacLeod took off for the ridge, his duster flapping behind him. Mulder watched him move, watched the modern urbanity fall from his shoulders. He breathed in camphor and dust, the air dry and foreign in his lungs. Suddenly Mulder felt out of place in his suit and overcoat, clothing that had always served as armor and mask._

_"Where's he going?" The voice spoke with a German accent._

_Mulder turned at the voice to see a middle-aged man, blond and thin. "Scouting," he answered._

_"Yes. He is reported to be good at that."_

_"Indian trained."_

_"Oh, certainly. You have read his chronicles?"_

_Mulder shook his head. "No, he just told me."_

_"He is a remarkable man by all accounts. Honorable in the face of much that is evil."_

_"Yeah, cutting the heads off people strikes me as honorable."_

_"Oh, you are not one of us?" Mulder shook his head. The man continued, "I think you misunderstand. That is what they do. He is known for taking out the bad ones."_

_"I see." Mulder looked back in the direction MacLeod had gone, and was surprised to see the man running back at full speed._

_"It's a trap!"_

_The next moments were like a bad movie, with two dozen soldiers topping the ridge a few seconds after MacLeod, all in slow motion._

_Mulder could hear Johnson behind him, yelling at the latest arrivals to get in their cars and to go._

_Mulder turned, trying to pick out the Jeep he came in, the one he had keys to start, but in the dust from other wheels and the melee of running people, he wasn't sure._

_The German man took his arm, leading him at a run toward a car where they could take cover. Mulder could see the muzzles of guns sticking up over the hood, ready to fire on the oncoming soldiers._

_Gun fire, automatic weapons, began behind him._

_And his chest exploded._

_He saw the spray of blood, and only with the delayed sense of impact, of pain did he realize that the blood was his own. His first thought was that Dana was going to kill him. His second thought was to wonder where the white light was. There was supposed to be a white light._

~~~~~

"Sasha," I said. "Or do I call you Alex?"

He looked up from his woolgathering. "Who do you want me to be?"

There was no right answer to that question.

I straightened suddenly at the sense of another Immortal, the third time that day. I looked around, but it faded.

We stood on the outdoor balcony of a two-story shopping plaza filled mostly with art galleries. People milled about in the afternoon sun. We had stopped at a jeweler to buy rings to mark the marriage, our one-day honeymoon ending last night with a knife in my heart and Sasha crying in insensible joy as I came back to life.

Those tears were the only things I believed. Few of the vows did I expect him to keep. He would not be faithful, and he would not need to keep me in sickness. "With all that I am and with all that I have, I honor you," we had said. That was all I asked.

I returned to his question. "Be you," I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. Affection between us was expressed less than it had been between Matty and Sasha. The gesture would have been nothing on Tuesday. Today it had weight. "The paper we signed says I married Alexander Krycek, who is so much more than Sasha Lisitsa the art dealer." I looked at his profile and rubbed the back of my fingers down his jaw. "I married all of you."

At that, he looked at me. "It was your idea. Remember that."

"You could have said no."

His eyes softened. "No, I couldn't."

"I'll call you whatever you like," I said. "Just be my husband." It was not a baseless plea. I had a suspicion of his plans, but it never hurt to try to derail that kind of train. We had said words and signed papers but the day before yesterday, yet already I could feel him withdraw.

He looked back down at the street below. "It'll be easier on everyone if you call me Krycek."

"Especially for this, for what we have to do," I agreed. It was like setting a switch in my brain. Sasha, the aging scamp with a streak of danger was gone, replaced by Krycek, the experienced agent with a streak of the Devil. I felt comfortable with him, and I wanted to be open, to trust him. "Anything else you've been hiding from me besides your name, husband?"

"Your friend's probably heading into a trap."

I felt a cold fury, felt walls snap into place. "And why did you neglect to tell us?"

He shrugged, heading toward the stairs. "Your friend is Immortal. He'll survive. If I know Mulder, he'll improvise. It'll be fine."

I looked down and fingered my ring, cursing myself for a fool. "And the rest? Johnson? The other Watchers?"

He stopped and turned. "What are Watchers, Matt?"

I had slipped. "Johnson's tribe. They watch Immortals, keep records."

"Clean up bodies?" he asked as if it the idea would answer a long-standing puzzle.

"Sometimes."

"What else are you holding out on _me_ , husband?"

His words stung more than they should have, but I said, calmly, "No more than you." I had married all of him, but I knew in that moment that he had not let himself marry me.

His face was a mask, and I walked past him, brushing his shoulder, the gesture more male ranking behavior that affection. I did not look to see if he followed.

Gantt was waiting for us at his rental car. "Gentlemen," he said. "I got some information about Mund's Canyon, where Kaos hangs out. It's private land with a guarded gate, but there's a back way in."

"Good."

"Also was interested to learn that the local New Agers don't mix much with his group. In fact, they don't like him much. He's bad for business. One woman who said she did Reiki said that Kaos's aura or whatever scared her."

"Did she say what he looked like?" Krycek asked.

"The aura or the guy? She said the guy looked like an ex-Marine or something."

"So he's using his own shape," Krycek said.

"Yep," said Gantt, "but we can't count on it. Let's go."

We stowed our gear in the trunk, which was already loaded with the supplies Krycek and I had requested, and got in the car. I needed superior firepower before I would go into a compound that had Immortals. I let Krycek take shotgun, and Gantt drove us up the road. We talked at first, but the plan, in reality, was little more than _Get Close and Kill Him_. 

The thoughts had no purpose, so I let myself spin out tactical scenarios in my head. I wasn't sure how to handle the Immortals that were there. I focused on one objective. I wanted Kaos dead because he was so direct a threat that hiding in Tibet would not let me avoid it. I shuddered at the idea of someone rending my Quickening. I pulled out my phone and sent a text message to MacLeod, warning him that it might be a trap. I didn't trust Krycek enough to let him know what I was doing. I sent the same message to Mulder's number, then Johnson's.

After that, I watched the landscape as we drove, the roads becoming less well-maintained as we got into the area around the canyon. Last time we were here, Sasha and I had only explored the Red Rocks area to the south. The country north was rough, tough trees in sandy soil for the most part. I let myself think as we drove, and began to place barriers in my head. If I was wrong, if at the end of this we had some happily ever after, then I could let them go. For now, survival came first, and I went to the coldest parts of my brain.

Finally, Gantt pulled off the road, such as it was, and said, "We'll do better on foot from here."

We assembled at the trunk of the car and got out our gear. I shrugged on a camelback pouch of water. Gantt looked at me. "Dying of thirst is my least favorite thing, so I tend to be paranoid when I head into back country. Beats the hell out of a goat skin any day." I neglected to mention it was lined with a PlaSteel/Kevlar weave, and thus bullet- and almost blade-proof. I put on my coat, and sheathed both Ivanhoes, metal and PlaSteel, in my coat. Gantt suited up in DCI combat gear, with vests and glasses. Krycek took off his leather jacket and shirt, and changed from his social arm to one that had tools instead of fingers, then tested them. I had never seen him use any of his alternate arms before, and found the whirring noises to be slightly disconcerting. Then there was a 'shnnng' sound, and a six-inch spike emerged from where his middle finger should have been.

Gantt had been trying to watch without staring, but at the sight of the spike, he startled. "Is that what I think it is?"

Krycek smiled at him. 

Gantt did not like the expression. "Anything else you holding out on us, Krycek?"

"Of course. Never show your whole hand, isn't that right, Matt?"

I ignored his attempt to revive Matty and Sasha's sarcastic style and said in a flat voice, "Your puns are always bad."

Gantt glanced over at me, taking stock of the tension in the air and deciding in a second's time to stay out of anything between husband and… husband. Even after half a decade of nation-wide legal marriage for all in the US, there were still people who weren't easy with the idea.

"Something I need to do first." I pulled out my phone. There were no responses to my text messages, so I called MacLeod, stepping several feet away from Sasha and Gantt. I got no answer. I tried Mulder next. Same thing.

I checked the time. They were not due to move in for another hour, and the silence meant nothing good. "Try calling Johnson," I said to Gantt.

He opened his phone, and several moments later shook his head.

"That's it," I said. "I'm not going in."

Krycek looked at me. "I didn't think you'd spook easy."

"I didn't live this long by doing stupid things."

He smirked. "You married me, didn't you?"

I had the Ivanhoe, the steel one, out faster than he could blink, point pressing his neck. "Have you told Agent Gantt here that you let his partner walk into a trap?"

"What?" Gantt closed the trunk with more force than necessary. 

Krycek started to shrug, and checked it when it made the point of my sword dig in. "Corrivubias plays both sides for her own ends. She always has. Mulder knows that."

"Why would she set us up?"

"For whatever she conceives as the greater good."

"What about this part, about getting Kaos?" I asked, the sword not wavering.

"She doesn't think we can do it. She doesn't know about this," Krycek said, giving us the lethal finger from his prosthetic, the mechanical sound adding to the menace. He tapped it on the Ivanhoe, the soft ting adding to the surrealism. "She's knows you're Immortal, and she knows I'll survive. She may be hoping to have us captured so she can learn more."

"What about Gantt?" I asked, pulling my sword back from his neck.

"Collateral damage, probably. Sorry."

"She doesn't know me," Gantt said. 

"Neither do we," I said, but something in his manner gave me confidence that he could handle himself.

We stood for a moment at impasse. "Let's go in," Krycek said. "Best case scenario, we take him out."

"Worst case, we're all killed."

"You're Immortal," he said, checking his gun and not looking at me. "What are you worried about?"

"Whole lot of other Immortals, armed with these," I said, hefting the sword. "I'm leaving."

As I turned to the car, I noticed a cloud of dust indicating another vehicle, a heavy one, moving fast. We moved into position without speaking, Gantt behind the car, and Krycek and I in the trees on either side of the road. I moved out so that we could box whoever it was, and I was fairly certain Krycek had the same thought. Maybe. The possibilities for additional betrayal were endless. 

A tan van, dented and rusted, which meant it wasn't from this desert, pulled up behind Gantt's rental.

I heard the door open. I was on the passenger side of the van, but I recognized the voice. "I'm looking for Mr. Bierce." Bobby Hobbes.

"Who wants him?" Gantt said, making sure Hobbes could see the barrel of his gun. 

"I work for him. Who are you?"

"I'm a federal agent."

"It's all right, Gantt," I said, coming out of the trees and around the van.

Hobbes eyebrows scrunched together as if he were trying not to laugh. "You look different, Mr. Bierce."

I nodded, wearing the regal lawyer face over my shaved head and lip piercings. "You look alive, Mr. Hobbes." I did not comment on his loud Hawaiian shirt.

He shrugged, a bit abashed, although I'm never one to fault a person for surviving unless I'm the one that tried to kill them. "That truth serum is powerful stuff," he said, "and it came to me in perfect clarity that wrecking your car was a piss-ant version of the blaze of glory."

"I can't argue with that," I said, and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Why don't you introduce me to your friend over there?"

Gantt came from behind the rental to join us, and I made the introductions. My husband was conspicuous by his absence. I walked toward the trees, and behind me I heard Hobbes regaling Gantt of how his secret agency had covers under innocuous governmental divisions, like Fish and Game. I tuned them out, and looked for Krycek.

"Let's not play coy," I called toward the woods.

"Hello, lover."

"Hello, you double dealing son of a bitch," I answered, as he stepped from behind a tree.

"Sorry your married me?" 

I shook my head. "Not yet. I've _been_ worse."

That earned me a look. "Just how old are you, Matt?"

"I'm not sure." His expression said he did not believe me. "It's true. I'm just some guy who's been around for a long time."

He let it go. "So who's the agent who says he works for you?"

"Former agent," I corrected, looking around us, listening hard.. "I met him when he was driving for the old man who kidnapped me. I told you about him. Bobby Hobbes."

"Oh, right. Let's see why he showed up."

I put my arm over his shoulder and turned back to Gantt and Hobbes. "C'mon, lover."

"All right, you-- What do you call someone who says he's worse than a double dealing son of a bitch?" 

I could hear the smirk without looking, so I stopped and turned, my hand sliding across his neck to the other shoulder and looked at him, echoing the word back to him again, though it was not one we had commonly used. "Lover, don't fuck with me." I knew how to command, to convince that a world of threat lay behind a simple phrase. I channeled that experience into my expression. I meant it.

He smiled in a way meant to be disarming, soothing, and said something he'd never said to me before. "I love you."

"I figured that out a while ago." It was true, but it didn't mean anything. As manipulation attempts go, it was a weak one. I squeezed him hard, and ran my hand over the joint between the prosthesis and skin, barely present under the leather jacket, but like the princess and the pea, I could feel it. I turned back to Gantt and Hobbes, using gentle touches to propel Krycek to move with me.

"You're kidding," Hobbes was saying. "Back in my day the GSA rules would never have allowed that." Gantt looked up as we approached, and Hobbes followed his eyes. "So that's the man of fame and legend himself. Alexander Krycek."

I glanced at Krycek. The expression that flitted across his face held amusement, pride, and a certain charming chagrin before it settled into purposeful annoyance. "It's all true," he said. "Even the parts when I did something nice."

"I must have missed those, my friend."

Krycek tensed under my hand, although no sign of it reached his face. He said, "A prophet is never honored in his own time, _tovarisch_."

"Yes, well," I said, "we were just leaving. At least, I was."

"Why is that, Mr. Bierce?"

I unsheathed the swords and began to take off my coat. It was autumn, but it was still too warm for the camelback and a coat if we weren't moving out. "We are too few, without a good plan, walking into a possible trap."

Hobbes smiled. "What if someone were able to go in and disarm the trap?"

I stopped before the coat cleared my shoulders. "How?"

"Remember my invisible friend?"

Krycek snorted. "Aren't you a little old for that?"

I held up a hand to still the brat. "You said he was dead."

"Yes, but in one of his rare lucid moments before they killed him, he gave me a token of his esteem. A gallon of it, in fact."

Hobbes walked around to the back of the van and opened the doors. The truck was packed with blue plastic drums. "Are those what I think they are?" Krycek asked.

"Yes, and let me tell you I was a little nervous driving on these back roads, given the shock sensitivity of this stuff. But that's just a little extra something."

Gantt had followed us around. "You're calling a truck bomb _just a little extra something_?"

Hobbes produced a gallon jug of opaque plastic. "My partner Fawkes had a gland put in his head in a government experiment."

"That's nice," said Krycek. "Are you going to give us all milk and cookies while you tell this story?"

Hobbes and I both glared at him. Hobbes opened the jug and stuck in the end of his finger. When he pulled it out, it was gone. His finger simply ended, no nail, no healed-over stump. As he moved it around I could tell that whatever was in that jug bent the light somehow, because when he pointed straight at my eyes, I could see the rest of his hand, but the entire forefinger, not just the end, seemed... invisible.

"Quicksilver," Hobbes said, looking at his hand. "Fawkes, my partner, he sweated out a gallon of this stuff and told me to save it for a rainy day," 

"It's not raining," I said gently. I had some idea what this meant to him, and I wanted to honor his choice without embarrassing him. 

"What do you want? It's a desert." He shook his hand. A silver mist shimmered in the air, and the fingertip was visible again. "It's been over twenty-five years." Hobbes looked at me, glanced at Gantt and Krycek, and then back to me. "It ain't gonna matter if it rains or not if we don't stop what's going on here."

"And just what is going on here?" I asked. Under the truth serum, Hobbes had only been able to tell me about the old men, the aliens, and the clones. I wondered what else he had learned.

"I did some digging," he said. "The Syndicate has been bussing clones out here to this compound. They leave here and go to a staging area in the hills up north. When they come back to the holding area, they are very hard to kill. Like you. I saw you take that bullet, and I saw you pick up your bags like nothing had happened."

"Do you know how they're doing it?" I asked.

"My sources get a little hazy at this point, and there's an argument about whether it's some new alien technology or not." He squinted at me, and came to a conclusion. "You know. You know what's going on in there."

I shrugged. "We have some information." 

"No," he said, shaking his head. "If you want to use this," he hefted the jug, "then you tell me everything."

It was a good bargain. "I'm Immortal," I said. "There are a number of us, and we have an alarming tendency to kill one another. The best way to kill us is to take our heads. When we do that, the power of the other Immortal comes into us. We call it the Quickening."

"It's quite a light show," Gantt said. 

I looked over at him, then at Krycek, who had an odd expression on his face. At my look he shrugged and said, "It took you seven years to tell me, and now you blab it to every ex-federal agent?"

"It's a calculated risk." I turned back to Hobbes. "There's a man in the compound who is not human. I don't know how he does it, but my information is that he can take apart an Immortal's Quickening, our power, which grows with every head we take, and put it into the clones."

"How not human is this guy?"

Krycek answered. "He's an alien bounty hunter."

Hobbes closed his eyes. "Oh, crap."

"Heard of them?"

"The guys who can shape shift and who are super strong and heal easily? The ones you can only kill with an alien manufactured spike to the neck? Nah. Never heard of them." He put the jug down and patted the top. "Boy, are you lucky I showed up with this."

"And this," I said, patting the van with its explosive cargo.

"Plus Krycek can give him the lethal flip-off," said Gantt.

We all looked at Krycek, and he demonstrated the spike for Hobbes.

"You stole one?" Gantt asked.

"I didn't steal it," Krycek grinned, and the spike disappeared with the soft shnng sound. 

We began to plan then, studying the maps Hobbes brought and the one given by Corrivubias. Gantt impressed me with his professionalism. A lesser agent would have not been able to put aside the news that his partner was in trouble, and then stick to the job. He did not entirely control his expression when he looked at Krycek. When this was over, Gantt would be looking for answers, and possibly for blood.

Kaos' place was a very large house with two floors, basement, and two outbuildings. The Immortals stayed in the main house, with the other cultists in a dormitory-style guesthouse, at least according to Corrivubias. The new plan was a variation on the old one, but with more firepower and a better element of surprise. Gantt would go in covered in Quicksilver, invisible, and would relay information before cutting power to the house and grounds, dispatching any guards. Hobbes would take the truck bomb in, and aim it at the largest concentration of Immortals, which we assumed would be the house. I would stay back with Krycek. If the bomb decapitated any Immortals, I did not want to be near enough to be knocked back by a Quickening. We would come in after, find Kaos, and I would cover Krycek while he killed him. 

Simple enough.

In my mind, I anticipated all the ways it could go wrong.

Hobbes and Gantt drove ahead in the van, and Krycek and I followed on foot. The compound was another mile down the dirt track, and we figured it would be close to an hour until the truck blew. I made one more attempt to contact MacLeod, Mulder, and Johnson, and left no messages. After that, Krycek and I walked, not speaking. He took my hand after a few minutes, and after a few minutes more he stopped and brought my palm to his lips. He kissed it, then ran his tongue in a tight circle. Keyed up as I was, I responded by pulling my hand away, yet moaning deep in my throat.

"Mixed messages," he said.

"It's hardly the time," I began.

"Now. God, now, please. I don't know how this is going to go down, and I want--"

"What, Alexander? What do you want?" I must admit I enjoyed the feeling of tenderness mixed with suspicion. I let him hear both.

"You." His eyes were hot, needy. "I want to suck you off, taste you on my tongue, drink you down, go in there with you in me." His voice held passion and fear. I believed nothing.

Without a word, I dragged him off the trail, leaned against a thick tree, and opened the buttons of my jeans. Then, with matching heat in my voice I said, "Now. Make it fast."

He dropped to one knee, pulled out my cock and breathed on it before taking it in to his mouth, sucking it to hardness. He was good at this, and he knew my sensitivities, backing off and letting me watch his tongue wrap and swirl and lick flat. He reached up and grabbed my sweater and the T-shirt underneath, using the cloth to rub roughly over my chest, catching my nipple now and then, all the more effective for being unpredictable. My cock felt cool where his tongue had been, and I could feel it moving as if chasing for more sensation.

Then he went to work, bringing me off from that foundation and over the edge with his mouth and his hand on my body, his thumb on the pressure point of my inner thigh, his fingers pulling my balls back, then palming them forward with fingertips brushing deeper, sensitive places. I came fast and hard, and he was good as his word, milking me with his mouth and tongue, sucking down everything I could give him so hard that it hurt, and the hurt was good.

When I opened my eyes, he rose, smirked and said, "I don't think they heard you in Scottsdale."

"O. D. Very funny." It was an old joke. He hated that I could be so quiet, but I'd had decades of practice. Now that the cat was out of the bag about my Immortality, I could make the jokes I'd always held back. "An active sex life in a monastery demands that the Vow of Silence be strictly kept."

"You were a monk?"

"Not a good one," I said, fastening my jeans. "Shall I demonstrate what else I learned in the cloisters?" 

He leaned against the tree, and he let me undo his button and fly while I kissed him. He was already erect, but I dropped to my knees and spent a moment teasing him with my lips, bringing him to that state of iron hardness that he would lose capacity to achieve in a decade or two. I ran my fingers through the gray of his pubic hair, nipped my way down the underside of his cock and sucked in his balls the way he once liked it. 

"Harder," he whispered. "Use your teeth."

I pulled loose skin into my mouth and caught it in my molars, jacking him with my hand. I sucked him in and scraped my teeth over the head of his cock. I dropped the knife into my hand and traced the point over his thighs while I worked him. 

"Oh, God, Matt." Krycek grabbed the back of my head with his right hand, and I let him fuck my mouth until he flooded my tongue with the acrid taste of butter from the desert.

I had not seen him come so hard and so long in quite some time. I pulled back when his last aftershock was done, and mouthed the head of his cock using teeth and tongue, and he gasped in the too-intense pleasure as the spike from his prosthetic hand pierced my jugular vein. 

Damn. I hadn't expected him to kill me for another hour or two.


	11. Wotan's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boom.

>   
> _"Maybe it's not too late to kill the goose before your bridges are burned."  
> _ Starman Jones  
> 

_Mulder wanted the pain to stop. Then it did, and he gasped for air. There was a noise of lightning in his ears, but no thunder followed. He opened his eyes and sat up to see Agent Johnson standing like a federal Valkyrie, bringing a sword down on the neck of a corpse, and again, severing the spinal cord with the second chop. Before he could say anything she walked away, appearing not to see the mist that rose from the corpse and flowed toward Mulder._

_He had time to register movement and bodies, MacLeod in the middle of a lightning storm some twenty yards away, and then the first jolts hit his body. Electricity moved from his legs to his head, knocking him back to the ground with the sensation of dragging hot barbed wire that cracked into his mouth, eyes, and ears. A distant part of his awareness remembered what it was like to see this happen to Bierce, and none of him understood why it was happening to him._

_He could feel memories that weren't his, and anger at a life cut too short. The memories were all recent, nothing from a childhood. He saw images of training, of a dormitory full of men who looked exactly alike, of a face. Kaos. Mulder followed that trail, and the memory of Kaos was accompanied by burning that had everything to do with the jolts running through Mulder now. It was pain, it was ecstatic, and when the first one ended, another began, and another after that. He lost count at four when something seemed to arc between him and MacLeod. After that it went on for so long there was no way to keep count._

_When it finally ended, Mulder was face down in the dirt, his body having flipped in the air without his volition. With effort he pulled himself up to his hands and knees, then squatted back, kneeling with his hands on his thighs, noting absently that the fabric of his suit was no match for the rocks and sand. There were tears at the knees, and pulls and abrasions on the thighs of his trousers. He studied them because he was afraid to look up. A headache buzzed at the back of his brain._

_Eventually a gentle hand touched his shoulder. He looked to see Johnson's brown fingers. They were clean, but the sleeve of her blouse was splattered with blood._

_"Agent Mulder?"_

_"Agent Johnson."_

_"Are you--?"_

_"Okay?" Mulder filled in the last word. "I have no idea."_

_"I saw you die," she said. "I think I saw you come back to life while I was beheading the clones. I saw you sit up and assumed it was some weird corpse response to hot weather, but then you started taking Quickenings, and...." She did not finish the thought._

_"Are you telling me I'm like Bierce and MacLeod?"_

_"I think so, sir." There was something in her voice that sounded like awe. "I've never seen a First Death before. There are very few Chronicles that start with the beginning."_

_Mulder could hear the capitalization in her words. It annoyed him, so he went for sarcasm. "So, I didn't hallucinate that bullet coming through my chest?" He touched the ruined and stained fabric of his shirt. He didn’t need her answer._

_"No sir."_

_"And now some member of your tribe is going to watch and see if someone cuts my head off?" Mulder didn't let her answer. "Did you know? Did you know I was like that?"_

_"No, sir." There was a certainty in her voice, and he suddenly thought that there was something about him that contradicted whatever she knew of Immortals._

_"What aren't you telling me? What makes you surprised to find me... like this? The fact that I aged?"_

_He could hear her shaking her head with the clinking of the beads in her braids. She took several seconds to speak. Mulder used the time to get to his feet, and he took her offered hand. When he could look her in the eye he said, "Well?"_

_"I don't want to comment on your personal life, sir."_

_That was interesting. "Consider permission granted."_

_"Well," Johnson began, and hesitated._

_Mulder put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and glanced down at his ruined and bloody shirt. "Whatever it is, it can't be weirder than what just happened."_

_She took a breath. "Sir, Immortals can't have children. Even before their First Death."_

_He felt the blood drain from his face. His children were from donor eggs, he knew. Dana could not have children on her own. The question became, who was the father? The fertility clinics had said nothing about his sperm being a problem._

_"There must be some exceptions."_

_"Not in our records. I'm sorry. I thought you should be told by someone who cared." Johnson looked down and away, and changed the subject. "I don't know if I would welcome or dread Immortality." When Mulder turned, she met his eye and added, "You'll need to get a sword and a teacher, now that you're one of them."_

_He had nothing to say. It happened rarely enough that Mulder noted his response. There was too much to take in all at once. Rather than examine any of it, he turned his focus back to the case. He surveyed the headless bodies of the clones. "How many did you lose?" he asked, looking at Johnson. Her legs and forearms were spattered in blood, thick in some places._

_"Just one, but we have three wounded."_

_"Do they need a hospital?"_

_"Not just yet. Two are surface wounds, and we've pulled the bullet from the third. They'll be watched for infection, and we have our own doctors who can treat them."_

_Mulder nodded. He had the impression that this tribe thing was fairly well organized. "Do all Immortals know about you?"_

_"No, sir. We try to keep our existence a secret. From everyone. MacLeod was friends with one of us, but that's very unusual." She looked across the field of corpses._

_It was one of the stranger sights Mulder had seen. Some two dozen bodies dressed as soldiers, lacking heads, armed with swords and guns. He looked at Johnson, who seemed somber, and followed her gaze to MacLeod on the far side of the field of bodies. Something in her look, random pieces of information, clicked. "How bad was it?"_

_"Sir?"_

_"When the rest of your tribe found out they were friends?" Mulder asked. "Earlier, in the hotel room, you said it wasn't worth your life to talk about it. It sounds like their friendship was the kind of violation of taboo that usually has consequences. "_

_Still watching MacLeod, Johnson snorted, "Taboo. That's a word for it. It was before my time, but they were going to kill them both."_

_"Sounds drastic."_

_She nodded. Mulder could tell she would say no more about it, so he dropped the subject and watched MacLeod talk with others of the group for a moment, before turning toward them. As he crossed to them, Mulder's headache--not really pain, but a strange buzz that felt like it could hurt--grew in intensity._

_"How are you?" MacLeod asked._

_"I don't know," Mulder answered honestly, then MacLeod held out one of the sheathed swords from the clone soldiers._

_"You know how to use one of these?"_

_"I fenced a little at Oxford, but not long enough to get good at it, and that isn't anything like an epee."_

_MacLeod pulled the sword from its scabbard and swung it a few times. Mulder could feel everyone's eyes on them, and Johnson stepped out of range, a troubled expression on her face. MacLeod flipped the weapon, changing his grip, and held it hilt first to Mulder. The drop in tension from the observers was visible, and MacLeod smiled a little in acknowledgement._

_Mulder took the sword, feeling as if he had missed something. Did they think MacLeod would kill him? He put the thought aside to visit later, and concentrated on the weapon in his hand. The weight was unfamiliar, too heavy for the formalized moves of fencing, or perhaps he would need to build up his strength._

_He stopped himself at the surrealism of that thought. As if reading his mind, and a bit as if he'd made the speech before, MacLeod said, "You'll need to find a teacher, someone to teach you how to use that thing and how to survive."_

_Johnson had said something about a teacher, too. "You?"_

_"Not me. I don't take students." There was a finality in MacLeod's words that Mulder could feel, and it made him wonder what story lay behind it. "If you can't find an Immortal, start with martial arts. Pick up your fencing again, too. Maybe Johnson can fill you in on the rules of the Game."_

_Mulder latched on to the diminutive, hoping that the most serious thing he would have to deal with was, ten years from now, explaining to Dana why he hadn't aged. "So this is all a game?"_

_MacLeod's answer was swift. "It's deadly serious, and if you want to live, you'll stop acting like you know everything and start listening to other people."_

_"I'm sorry."_

_"No," said MacLeod, looking at him. "You're not sorry, and you're not stupid, but you're arrogant, and that is going to get you killed."_

_Mulder choked back his first response, which was to ask MacLeod just who was arrogant, and he closed his eyes with the memory of Bierce fighting that unknown kid, of watching the sword slice through flesh because Bierce had let himself be distracted by Mulder's voice._

_MacLeod pulled out his phone, opened it, and shut it. "It's dead," he said. "Probably yours, too. Eryna, can you call your partner and find out if they were also set up?"_

_"We were set up?" Mulder felt stupid. He didn't like the feeling._

_"Of course we were. There were only about twenty of the clone soldiers, and the caves over the ridge are nothing like that Covarrubias woman described."_

_"She's always given me good information before."_

_'How long has that been?" MacLeod asked. "Twenty years?"_

_"Twenty six." Before MacLeod could say it, he added, "And yes, people change."_

_Johnson looked up from her cell phone. "I have a text message from Bierce saying that we're walking into a trap, and an attempted call from his number, but no message."_

_MacLeod said, "If he knew about our situation, then either they're walking into something, too, or he found out ahead of time and backed out."_

_"Backed out?" Mulder asked._

_"He's a survivor, the world's best."_

_MacLeod sounded bitter and affectionate, both. Mulder found he had trouble pegging MacLeod, and he wondered if it had to do with a different psychology for someone who was Immortal, who had more life experience than a human and no prospect of accidental death. He noticed abstractly that his mind still balked at applying the word to himself. Immortal. Not him. He took refuge in planning. "So we should leave here and go to Kaos's compound if we can't raise them by phone."_

_MacLeod cocked an eyebrow. "We thought of that."_

_"What? Your friend Bierce is probably in trouble, and Gantt doesn't have their advantages. We should be heading to Mund's Canyon to help them."_

_"Krycek has advantages?" MacLeod asked. "How do you mean? He's not Immortal. That headache you're feeling, that's how we sense each other."_

_"Good to know. Whatever it is, I saw him take a bullet to the head. Twenty-five years later, he shows up as Sasha Lisitsa, playing house with your friend Bierce."_

_"Could he be a clone, or an alien replacement?" Johnson asked._

_"I'm sure he's not an alien replacement." Mulder had checked Krycek's neck at the first opportunity, and it did not have the telltale bumps. "If he's a clone, they aged him and gave him a complete personality transplant. That's Krycek, all right. I don't know how, but it's him."_

_"And you don't trust him?"_

_Mulder wanted to laugh. "He's a rat bastard. Devious, manipulative. His motives are never clear, except that they are self-serving. Sometimes he plays a deep game, and sometimes it's all on the surface, but you can never tell which is which."_

_MacLeod surprised him by shaking his head, smiling as if he, too, wanted to laugh with the same dark mirth. "If you think he's bad, you don't know anything about his husband."_

~~~~~

I blinked, and gasped and tried to focus. When I was finally alive, I focused on a pair of pale blue eyes. Blond hair. Hand holding a knife.

I grabbed Covarrubias' wrist, and forced her to drop the knife. As it fell on the floorboard of the car, I recognized it as one of Krycek's collection. A quick twist and I had her in a hold that would dislocate her shoulder if either one of us moved. I glanced around. I was in Gantt's rental in the back seat. I smelled fire nearby.

"You have some explaining to do."

I could see what I thought was the main house, gutted by the bomb and burning. Local authorities would be here soon, and I thought I heard the distinct whomping noise of a helicopter. Krycek must have gone back to get the car and transported my corpse in the back seat. My clothes were stiff with my own blood.

"Let me go," said Covarrubias. "I'm not your enemy."

"You set up my friends, up there in the caves."

"No, I showed your friends what they were up against and that they were far too few for the number of clones that remain."

"Facile answer," I said.

"True," she countered.

It was believable. I wasn't sure I believed her, but the only way to know where she stood was to let this play out. I loosed my grip, then rubbed at my neck. There was a small scar from where Krycek had pierced me, my first new scar in five millennia.

Some of the gore now stained her suit, which was cut in a style that would not have stood out on safari a hundred years ago. She brushed at the flakes of blood, but the gesture seemed more habit than hopeful.

"Sorry," I said, standing up from the car. "Last time I saw Krycek, he killed me."

"Usually when I have that conversation, the word _tried_ is included."

"Yes, well." Let her deal with her own problems with the concept of Immortality without my help. I looked around. "Did you engineer this, too?"

"No. I came hoping that I could help."

I looked at her, not covering my skepticism.

"Most of them survived," she said. "There were only a few casualties."

"Who?"

"At the caves. Three of Johnson's friends were wounded, one killed." She closed her eyes briefly. "And Mulder was shot in the chest."

"Too bad I wasn't there to see it," drawled Krycek's voice.

I bit my tongue around telling him that Mulder was unlikely to still be dead. I had an idea of how he would react to Mulder's Immortality.

"Hello, Krycek," I said.

"Hello, lover."

From there, I knew. He had wanted to keep me dead. "To whom are you speaking?"

"Is _lovers_ better?" he said. "I mean, that threesome? I'd love to do that again, but Marita isn't into knives in bed."

He leered. The brat leered. I ignored it as loudly as I could. "Kaos?"

"He's alive."

I realized that I sensed no Immortals, but I did not have the feeling I'd taken any Quickenings. Either I'd been dead the whole time, or something wasn't right.

"Where is everybody? Gantt, Hobbes, the cultists?"

"The cultists are dead. Hobbes and Gantt are looking around."

"Where is Kaos?"

"Come on. I'll show you."

"Why haven't you killed him yet?" asked Covarrubias.

Krycek smiled again, merely unpleasant, but moving into the realm of smug. "You'll see."

"Why did you kill me?" I was curious as to how he would answer.

His face changed in an instant, more Sasha than cold agent. "To save you. I didn't want you to be noticed by any Immortals in the compound."

I forbore to laugh at him. I knew how much he'd gotten off on putting that spike in my neck. Long before Freud, I understood the joy of mixing blood and semen, of killing and fucking at once. How many times, when I was Death, had I indulged in that pleasure?

"I see." I covered my amusement with small expression of forgiving tenderness.

Covarrubias watched us carefully. She seemed smart enough not to take things at face value.

"I need you to help me carry something," Krycek said.

I stood up from the car, and walked where he led me. I still had my swords and knives, but the gun was gone. That was his first mistake.

As we walked toward the rubble of the house, Gantt came trotting up. "Nothing and no one. No one alive. I came in invisible--let me tell you that was cool--and they were all in the house, having some sort of meeting, all but one guy guarding the main drive way. I took him down, cut the power and Hobbes sent in the van. Seven people came out of the house armed with swords or guns, but since I was invisible I could stand and shoot at will. That was cool. It would have been impossible without that advantage. We cut the heads off everything. Fifteen bodies, and six light shows."

Six Quickenings lost, I thought. "Hobbes?" I asked.

"Taking a breather. Says he's too old for this kind of thing."

"What about the guard?"

"Dead."

"Where is Hobbes?"

"I left him sitting on a log. He'll be all right." To Krycek, Hobbes was of no importance, despite providing the truck bomb. "Look, I know where Kaos is. We need to get him out of here before the local fire and rescue shows up."

"I heard a helicopter earlier," I said.

"Probably recon. Let's get moving then."

Krycek led us in a wide circle around the house, and I could see bodies and parts of bodies. Krycek stepped over a leg without looking down and stopped at a bulkhead door set into the ground. It looked like it had been hidden in landscaping, but the plants around it were flattened by the blast. He opened one of the doors, and I stepped back, smoke pouring out of the opening, then dissipating, as if it had been waiting for an outlet. "Anybody bring a flashlight?" he said.

Gantt produced one. I let him go first. I was not at all in favor of going into the basement beneath a burning building, even if the opening was fifteen meters away. "I'll stand guard."

Krycek looked at me, his face blank, then followed Gantt down the stairs. I watched as they fell into the pattern of trained agents, speaking with gestures of chin and hands.

When they had gone into the dark, I looked at Covarrubias. "Can you find Mr. Hobbes? I'm sure he could use some company."

"I haven't met him," she answered.

"You won't miss him," I said. "Look for a man in a Hawaiian shirt sitting on a log."

She looked at me, as if to probe for the reason behind my suggestion. I showed her nothing, and she said, "All right." She turned, walking in the direction from which Gantt had arrived.

With her gone, I could turn off my social face and think. I did not for one second believe the excuse that Krycek gave for killing me. I guessed that the thing he said he wanted me to help carry would be Kaos, but why would he not simply kill him? The answer was obvious, and I did not want to let myself think it.

Love makes fools of us all, but in no way was I an idiot.  



	12. Wotan's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mistakes are made, and two secrets revealed. Maybe three.

>   
>  _"Marriage is a psychological condition, not a civil contract and a license. Once a marriage is dead, it is dead, and it begins to stink even faster than a dead fish."_   
>  To Sail Beyond the Sunset   
> 

My phone rang. In the peephole I saw Johnson's face, dirt-smeared and grim.

"How sprang the trap?" I asked as a greeting.

"Too bad we got your warning too late."

"Covarrubias said she did it so you would know what you were up against."

"I hate to say it," Johnson sighed, a mix of anger and resignation, "but she may have had a point. We only had two Immortals to absorb over twenty Quickenings."

That would exhaust even me. Perhaps Covarrubias had been telling the truth. "How's Mulder?"

I could see her shrug. "Too calm, which I assume means he'll snap any minute now."

"Did MacLeod agree to take him as a student?"

"No," she said. "He still won't take students."

"Yes, well, the last time I killed one of mine, it took quite a while to take another."

"And how long is _quite a while_?"

Despite the situation, I smiled at her. "I was a Watcher too, you know. I know your tricks, and damn if you haven't gotten me to admit that Adam Pierson wasn't a new Immortal."

"I knew that just from watching you fight Blaise Edwards.” She paused and added, “Joe Dawson trusted me enough to hint broadly. MacLeod asked for you before he recovered himself from the clones, but he passed it off as Mathias. I don't think anyone else noticed."

I looked at her small face on the screen of my phone. It looked as if she were trying not to spook a skittish horse. I said nothing, wondering if she could see that the blood had drained from my face.

"I think Joe felt someone should know that you were still alive." She took a breath and said my name. "Methos. Your secret is safe."

Even through the phone, I could hear the reverence, and it stuck in my throat. It was unpleasant, being treated like a Holy Grail. It was just a cup, after all.

She seemed to realize that she had pushed into areas I would not welcome. "Don't worry. MacLeod has already told me what he will do if I reveal you to the Watchers." She returned to the disciplined agent. "I can’t raise Gantt. What's your situation, Mr. Bierce?"

"Krycek and Gantt are in an underground bunker, looking for Kaos. We have about a dozen dead, thanks to a truck bomb, and Gantt said six were Immortals. Covarrubias is here, keeping company with a former federal agent named Bobby Hobbes. Where are you?"

"On the road to Mund's Canyon. MacLeod is driving."

"Don’t come here," I said. “Hobbes’ truck bomb has caught the attention of local fire and rescue. We'll meet you back at the hotel."

There was a jolting in the picture as MacLeod grabbed the phone. "Are you all right? What is Krycek doing?" Before I could answer he went on, "Mulder says he's a rat bastard who can't be trusted."

I could tell he was quoting. MacLeod never used such language. "That should make us soul mates, then, shouldn't it?"

"Methos," he began.

Damn nursemaid. "He's already killed me once today. I won't let him do it again. See you in Sedona."

I closed the phone on his impotent fury.

Mulder's assessment of Krycek did not surprise me. I took a sip from my camelback and thought back to the evidence before me. In two minutes I had exhausted the alternate conclusions and settled on what I had not let myself think.

In two more minutes I saw a light down the stairs. I knelt down to where I could see, ready to withdraw should it not be Krycek and Gantt. Sounds reached me of low voices, of dragging, then Gantt said, "You want to help me get this thing up the stairs?"

I came down. Krycek and Gantt were dragging a tarp that held the charred body of what must be Aleister Kaos. It looked like no body I had ever seen, scabbed in shades of green and brown without a hint of red. I took Krycek's side of the tarp, and Gantt handed off his flashlight as we started to drag the thing up the stairs. Four steps up, Gantt slipped and dropped his end. The body rolled, and he jumped away from the body and the tarp.

"Sorry," he said.

Krycek explained, "The blood is toxic to humans. It probably won't kill you, though."

"Probably?"

"It contains a retrovirus."

A momentary image rose of a rough back room, of myself in a sling, with the smell of sex and Crisco overlaying everything. I'd been exposed to retroviruses before. "Should be all right."

I was going to have to carry the thing and if the ichor--a stilted word these days, but there was no other--contaminated my clothes, it would be a hazard to the mortals. I took off my coat and handed it to Krycek, then stripped everything but my shorts. He hung my bloodstained coat on his prosthetic, knowing it would not fold given the swords, and slung my camelback of water over his shoulder. He mimicked a coat rack as I laid my empty back holster on his arm, and the humor struck me as out of place, but in character. I piled my clothes on the ground, intending to burn them, bloody as they were from the incident of the opened jugular vein. I ended by adorning Krycek further with the knife in its arm sheath. It also struck me that he looked at me, standing near naked, with no desire at all. That was almost a mistake.

To Gantt I said, "Can you find water? An outdoor spigot that still works or a barrel. I'll need to clean this stuff off when I'm done."

The thing was heavy, man shaped, and ugly. I pulled it onto my shoulders, in a calf carry, what we called it before there were firemen. I shuddered under the weight, the alien smell, and the realization that something about him affected me. My mind slipped around time and experience, refusing to stay here and now.

I staggered up the stairs and toward the car, the sounds of a dozen battlefields in my ears, the memory of trying to save too many fallen comrades with the same weight, the same burns, the same slick feeling of blood. I heard myself groan, protest and shout orders in an ancient tongue I did not know to soldiers long dead in a battle fought at the beginning of history, in battles that were not in my memory. I carried that thing through five thousand years of heavy clubs, black knives, beaked nulla-nullas, smooth anastasis, fletched arrows, curved kopesh, long spears, bright swords and loud guns.

I had never held a nulla-nulla, but I knew how to make one, how to hunt with it, paddle with it, make fire with it, fire that would dance across the dark, tattooed arms and faces of my Anangu brothers. I looked at my hands, shocked to find them bleached white like a bone on the sand.

"That, my friends, is one ugly customer. I can't believe it's still moving." Covarrubias and Hobbes were waiting at the car, and Hobbes' voice gave me a thread of connection, but I couldn’t be sure if it was yet another Quickening somewhere within me. I felt lost, fragmented, but with the voice coming from outside myself, I had a moment of awareness. Only then did I realize that the body I held was putting up a feeble protest. A figure ran up with a tarp. Tall. Gantt.

"Put him in the back seat," Krycek said. “If he regenerates, he'll be able to let himself out of the trunk." That didn't make sense. I would close the trunk with a padlock and stow it in the hold of the ship.

A woman's voice spoke like a long-delayed echo. "Why haven't you killed him yet?"

I could hear the smile.

Looking back, I must assume that Gantt spread the tarp on the seat, and Hobbes had some instinct that I needed him to talk me through the motions of putting the body down.

I heard Gantt say he had found water, and Hobbes took up a stick and herded me after him, knowing I was incapable on my own. Part of my mind knew he did not dare to touch me, and other parts remembered the prods of the overseers, waited for the whips, expected to know nothing but pain and labor.

The touch of the water jolted me, and I wondered if they were cleaning me for sale. Then the fragments began to fall back together. Gantt had found a hose connected to one of the out buildings and sprayed me down. As the green slime washed off, I remembered where I was, became one awareness again, standing in a scrub forest in the canyons. I turned and let him spray off my back and shoulders, then reached for the hose to finish the job myself. I pulled off the shorts, walked over toward the house, gathered my clothes and boots, and threw everything but the boots in the fire.

Gantt had gone on ahead, but Hobbes stayed close, carefully not looking as I stalked nude through the grounds. I skirted the dead and the parts of the dead, not wanting to get blood on my feet.

Krycek had laid my change of clothes on the hood of the car, but not my coat, the empty holster, or my PlaSteel knife in the forearm sheath. I dressed while everyone else stood discreetly on the other side. I heard noises of conversation, anger from Covarrubias, and what might have been a strangled groan from inside the car.

“You have to kill it!” Covarrubias said as I walked up to the group. “It’s healing itself. You’re the only one with the weapon that can do it.” She, Gantt and Hobbes were facing Krycek, who ignored them to look at me.

“Hello, Matt. Ready to go?”

“We won’t all fit in the car. Where’s my knife?”

“It’s in the trunk. You won’t need it.”

“Ah, but I feel naked without it. You wouldn’t want me to be uncomfortable, would you, lover?"

He reacted ever so slightly to the word, and smiled insincerely. “No. I’ll get it for you.” My coat and the camelback were in the trunk as well, but he only handed me the knife. I decided not to push it. My gun, I could see, was in his waistband. I slid up my shirtsleeve and strapped the blade into place. “Let’s go,” he said.

He reached to close the hood, and I stopped him. “Let me get the water. I’m thirsty,” I said, and grabbed the camelback. He was tense until he saw I wasn’t reaching for my coat and the swords.

Krycek slammed the hood hard enough that everyone looked our way, and then he drew his gun. “We’ll be leaving now,” he said as he brought up his arm to aim at them. “Nice working with you people.”

There was a noise, and Gantt fell, a bullet to the head. By the time he hit the ground, Hobbes was aiming a .357 at Krycek, and Covarrubias was holding something like a modified .22 pointed at me. I didn't want to test the innocent-looking gun. Anyone with access to alien technology, I decided, probably had more secrets than I did.

The thought struck me as weirdly normal. It seemed I was adjusting to life post-Tuesday.

I looked at the scene, and came to a decision. "Let them go, Sasha," I said. "Weapons down everyone." I had commanded armies, and I commanded them, even Krycek with the use of that name. "Let them walk back to town,” I said.

He considered for a long moment before dropping his gun. “Gantt was the only real threat,” he said, as if justifying himself to someone, perhaps himself. He was wrong.

I handed the camelback to Hobbes. “Wear this.” He looked at me and I narrowed my eyes a bit, the only gesture Krycek couldn’t see. “It’s water.”

“Thanks,” Hobbes said, and set the pack on his shoulders.

"Get the keys,” Krycek ordered.

I bent down and felt Gantt’s pockets, remembering how little it once affected me to search the dead, but now finding myself discomfited. I looked at the neat bullet hole in his head and thought about Krycek’s scar, wishing suddenly that Gantt had the benefit of PlaSteel overlying his skull. Right now, I liked him better than my husband. I found the keys and held them out to Krycek, my face showing none of my regret.

"You drive," he said to me. To Hobbes and Covarrubias he said, "Turn around, and do not look back until you can't hear the car any more. If you do, I'll shoot you."

He opened the door to the passenger seat, and I took the wheel and started the car. Hobbes and Covarrubias turned their backs, facing the burning house. Krycek shot them both in the back. I didn't flinch at the noise. They sprawled forward, a red stain spreading on the back of Covarrubias’ khaki jacket, water from the camelback darkening the dry earth next to Hobbes. Krycek did not seem to notice that it wasn’t blood.

The car dipped under Krycek's weight, and he closed the door. "Let's go."

Mindful of how close Gantt lay to the car, I backed slowly and turned around. Krycek, turned toward Kaos, and in the rearview I could see that the body was becoming less of a corpse and more of a trauma victim. The ruined eyes were trying to open.

"Why did you kill them?" I asked.

"Gantt was no DCI agent. He wouldn't have gone along with the truck bomb killing innocent people. Covarrubias is poison, always has been. Hobbes was an unknown, and I didn't trust him."

I didn't like the answer. If nothing else, Krycek hadn't even considered that fact that Hobbes worked for me when he shot him. That was his second mistake. "Where are we going?" I asked.

"Find a back road, and park."

"We're on a back road."

"One that doesn't lead right to the compound."

"What are we waiting for, the authorities to go by? They'll start searching the area. If that helicopter comes back, they'll probably find us.”

"We’ll move on as best we can. He should be back to normal in an hour or so, if he holds true to type."

"Right." Even since Tuesday, some things were harder to take than others.

"Their blood kills. It’s a good thing you weren’t affected by it."

That was his third mistake. I almost said _What do you mean, I wasn’t affected?_ but when I looked at him, he was turned toward Kaos. He had not noticed what Hobbes and Gantt had seen, that mere contact with that thing had begun to shred me. I didn’t know if it was the thing’s blood, or if in self-defense it was trying to use its power to take apart my Quickening, but it was not going to touch me again if I could help it.

Krycek had seen none of it, had not seen _me_ since he put that spike in my throat. I closed my eyes for a moment, and closed off my feelings. All that mattered was surviving this.

~~~~~

_Mulder drove the car, following the Jeep that carried Johnson and MacLeod. He was surprised when they did not protest his choice to travel alone, but now he wondered whether they were talking about him. Maybe it had been a bad choice, to give up the time to ask MacLeod questions. He pulled out his phone, but it was as dead as MacLeod had predicted, and he found himself wondering what his wife the physician would make of the electrical nature of Immortality._

_He hated taking a case without his partner, falling into familiar routines without the balance of her step and wit beside him. He missed Scully._

_It hit him that he missed his partner, but at that moment, he hated his wife. Who was the biological father of their children? Did she even know? Was the clinic crooked? The questions threatened to take him in circles, and he pushed his mind onto other problems._

_He wished he felt different in his body, but it all felt normal, not much more than the tired and energized feeling he remembered from other cases._

_He ran a fingernail down the back of his hand on the wheel, but didn't press hard enough to break the skin. An abstract knowledge that he was supposed to heal couldn't override the aversion to pain, to self-injury. The need to do the experiment was strong however, so he put his teeth on a piece of cheek, something he'd done enough by accident, took a breath, and bit down hard. It hurt. He tasted the expected blood, but also electricity and in seconds the inside of his mouth was perfectly smooth._

_Next he looked at his right eye in the rearview mirror. He looked his age, with the marks of a very large crow's feet, and a nest of gray hairs as his eyebrows. He hadn't noticed age creeping up on him, on his face, and now that he would look this way until something killed him, he took an interest. He'd have to start running again, get in shape and figure out a way to avoid the whole sword-fighting thing. No, he was enough of a realist to believe Johnson, Gantt and MacLeod when they intimated that he could not avoid it forever. If he had to fight, he had to learn how to win. The sword MacLeod had taken from the clone lay on the seat beside him. The design looked like a serious weapon, but from the edge of an era where swords became decorations. Civil War era, he thought, or earlier._

_Mulder drove, rehearsing in his mind how to adapt the formal moves of fencing to a true blood duel. Some of it probably held--present the smallest possible target, use the least movement necessary to parry an attack, attack under the guard. He should probably forget the rules of the fencing strip, he thought. No one else was likely to follow them. MacLeod had said something about a game, and that implied rules. What kind of rules?_

_An increase in the buzz in the back of his head made him pay attention to his surroundings, and he looked around as if on instinct. They were driving into town, past the turn to Mund's Canyon. Mulder spotted another driver also scanning nearby cars, and he forced himself to face forward, eyes on the tailgate of the Jeep, face neutral. He didn't think there would be sword fights in traffic--if there were, he would have learned about Immortals a lot sooner--but he didn't want anyone to mark him. Not yet._

_He followed the Jeep to the parking lot of their hotel. Johnson and MacLeod ahead of him and already emerging from their car. He parked and got out, grabbing the sword by the scabbard, his thoughts leading to questions without preamble. "So what are the rules of this game?"_

_MacLeod blinked, and Johnson snorted once, having had enough time with Mulder to be amused by the context, or lack thereof. Mulder had seen both expressions too many times for it to bother him. "The Game," he said again, feeling himself capitalize the word. "What are the rules?"_

_"No fighting on holy ground. No interfering in other people's fights. No shooting someone and taking their head."_

_"Penalties for breaking the rules?"_

_MacLeod grinned. "For the last two, people like me will hunt you down."_

_Mulder felt the certainty in those words. "And the holy ground rule?" Mulder's lips twitched with the near-pun._

_"No one knows for sure, though I'm told the last place it happened was in a city in Campania, off the Apian Way."_

_"Pompeii?"_

_"Rumor has it."_

_Mulder decided it was the kind of thing they told all the new recruits. "Don't tell me there was a shrine on Mount St. Helen's, too?"_

_"No, that was just a volcanic eruption. They happen." Mulder didn't like MacLeod's grin._

_"Any other tips you want to give me?"_

_"Sure. Don't lose your head."_

_Mulder rolled his eyes and consciously shifted gears. "So, what do we think about that little scene back on the mountain?"_

_"I spoke to Bierce," Johnson said. "They saw the Covarrubias woman. She told them she did it so we would know what we're up against."_

_"She had a point."_

_"That's what we think, too," Johnson said, glancing at MacLeod._

_"Do you know where the clones are?"_

_"We don't, and now Bierce isn't answering his phone."_

_"Well, if he took a Quickening, wouldn't that have shorted it out?" Mulder said, pulling his phone off his belt and chucking it toward a nearby trashcan._

_"Could be."_

_"So, the next thing to do is go to Mund's Canyon, which is where I thought we were going?"_

_"Bierce suggested we not join them. When we talked, Kaos' compound had just been destroyed by a truck bomb."_

_"Truck bomb? Where did they get one of those?"_

_"We don't know," Johnson said, "but when we spoke, Bierce said that Gantt and Krycek were retrieving Kaos."_

_"Does Gantt answer?"_

_"No."_

_Mulder jumped two steps toward a conclusion. That Krycek was in the equation only speeded the usual pace. "Nield? Have you been able to contact her?"_

_"No," Johnson answered, "And no one has seen her on campus either." Johnson held out her cell phone. "Do you want to call your wife, Agent Mulder?"_

_Mulder looked at the phone, but did not reach for it. He was not prepared for the questions he had to ask, and felt numbness where he knew hurt and curiosity should be._

_"No. Thanks." He gripped the sword in his hand, the edge of the scabbard pressing into his palm as if it were the knife that had cut away his entire idea of his life._

_"Are you all right?"_

_"Well, it's too bad Elizabeth Kubler-Ross isn't alive to discuss the stages of Immortality."_

_He could feel himself veering off course, and wondered if stage one of accepting Immortality was Dissociation. There was still the problem with Kaos, and he forced himself back to that. "We have to find the clones. To do that, we probably have to find Nield. I have a bad feeling about her. Johnson, get her background. Look for any ties to Olympian Chemical or its subsidiaries. Have someone find her and follow her. If she's left town, I want to know where."_

_Johnson nodded, and seemed relieved that Mulder had refocused on their shared problem._

_He turned to MacLeod. "I know you're not taking students, whatever that means, but would you mind giving me a few quick pointers with this thing?" He lifted the sword in its scabbard, stiffly._

_Something softened in MacLeod's face, and he touched Mulder's white knuckles. "First thing, relax your grip."_

  



	13. Wotan's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one gets what they want. No one likes what they hear.

>   
>  _"Madam, the commonest weakness of our race is our ability to rationalize our most selfish purposes."_   
>  The Star Beast   
> 

 

"Pull off here, " Krycek said. "And find something to cover the car."

"What, so the helicopters can notice the odd, car-shaped mound of branches?"

He glared at me, then turned his eyes back to Kaos. "Fine. Do it your way, but don't get us caught."

As I drove, I considered. The easiest way out of this for me was to have us found by the authorities, but that was a short-term tactic. I needed a long-term strategy to survive this with my Quickening intact and without killing my husband. I'd killed spouses before. I didn't like it.

I picked out a side trail, then turned off that trail as soon as I found an area clear enough for the sedan Gantt had left us. The ride was rough, eliciting moans from our passenger in the back seat. I glanced in the mirror, and his eyes stared back, lids not yet repaired, which was quite opposite of Immortal healing. I shook my head once, tilted it toward Krycek in the passenger seat, and turned my attention back to driving.

I found a tree with low branches spread wide, and stopped the car.

"What?" Krycek asked. "Here? This is too open."

"I need my sword. I can cut us a lovely hidden garage in the branches. It'll have the genuine version of the rustic look you find so offensive in inauthentic places." I tried to appeal back to our former life, when we'd taken great joy in raking everything around us over the coals of taste.

He looked at me, and I could see him his shift his gears consciously to follow. It took too long, though. He must be distracted, or tired. A few hours ago, he would have taken the bait in order to reassert his imagined control over me. After too long a pause, he said, "Well, this is authentic rustic décor. Leave it to you to find accommodations I can't object to."

I put the car in park and popped the trunk, still weighing options. In the end, it seemed best to play along for now and see if Krycek would take this where I thought he was going. I took the PlaSteel Ivanhoe, not wanting to damage the edge of the steel sword, and hacked just enough of the low branches to fit the car underneath, then used the broken limbs to cover the opening. We would be invisible from the air, and hard to see by anyone looking for a car. To be sure, I took a smaller branch and obscured our tire tracks back to the road and a little beyond.

I heard a deep rumble of engines, but no sirens. It would be the fire trucks, not wanting to warn whoever set off the bomb. I went back to the car, stepping on rocks and piles of pine needles and leaves, leaving no easy trail. MacLeod could have tracked me, but I doubted the Coconino Sheriff's office had trackers on staff. I put the Ivanhoe back in the trunk, ducked under branches, and got into the car. Kaos had almost healed his face, and his hands were moving as if to check his control over the fingers. He was ugly, big, and still smelled of char.

Krycek barely glanced at me, other than to confirm that it wasn't someone else. "So what next?" I asked.

He didn't answer, but spoke instead to Kaos. "Can you talk yet?" Kaos grunted and shook his head. "But you can hear. Good. Now, do you know what this is?" Krycek held up his prosthetic, which looked hardly like a hand, and with the same deep snicking sound as last time, the long spike appeared.

This was my first chance to look at it closely. It had the same flat opalescent gray as the Ivanhoe replica, as the knife strapped to my arm. I was right that it was PlaSteel, the same material that Hobbes said was fused to Krycek's skull. Then I remembered what Gantt had said about the last one of these spikes at the DCI not coming back from loan to Heracles Composites, a subsidiary of Olympian Chemical, and makers of PlaSteel. It wasn't a breakthrough, it was alien technology.

The thought bothered me only momentarily, having too often been the one who brought foreign technology into isolated cultures. The main thought was to retire the idea of wresting Krycek's arm off to use the spike on Kaos. I had a weapon that should work. I felt myself uncoil, then wind again in a new way. The smile never reached my face, but inside, it was there.

"Do you know what this is?" Krycek said again to Kaos who looked at the spike, then me, then the spike again, or Krycek's face, I couldn't be sure. He nodded, his neck and lips noticeably thicker with a few more moments of healing.

"Then you know what I'll do to you if you don't do as I say?"

Kaos nodded.

"What do you want him to do?" I asked, knowing the answer.

Krycek pulled my gun and put it to my temple, never once looking my way.

"Make me like him," he said to Kaos. "Do for me what you did to the clones."

I could see Kaos in the rearview, though his face was partly obscured by the reflection of Krycek's finger on the trigger of his gun. Kaos looked at me and raised his arm toward me, but it dropped back. He was not yet strong enough, and the look in his eyes said he didn't want to. Perhaps it was harder because he now knew me too well, knew too many of me to kill all by taking one.

"Krycek? Alexander?" I said, turning toward the gun and letting fear into my voice. "What are you trying to do?"

"To be like you," he said. He glanced at me, but did not turn, as if he did not trust his expression.

"Sasha," I said, mixing fear with command and appeal, and then he looked at me. There was hunger in his eyes, and he tried to make it look like desire for me, but he failed.

"I want to be like you. I want to live forever. I want to be with you forever."

There was a second where I wasn't sure how I would react. He must have seen something in my eyes that looked like what he wanted to see, at least for a second. I felt a certain tenderness toward him—there was no other word—but there was more amusement and pity than he was prepared to see, and I watched his face change as he read my expression.

Then I laughed. I laughed at him and it startled him enough that I could pull the knife out of its sheath on my forearm and cut the back of his hand to the bone while turning and pushing his face with my left hand. I pinned him to the door, his dropped gun lying between us, and took a breath, then looked directly at Kaos.

"I cannot let you live."

"I can stop," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper, not yet healed. "Move on."

"To what?"

"Something new. This game was beginning to bore me."

"Why play this game? What did they offer you, and why in hell did you take some of them up and sacrifice them on the vortex sites?"

"What happens if I don't tell you?"

"I'll kill you."

"You'll kill me anyway. I know you better than you know yourself."

He might have a point. I had no memory of killing an Anangu. Perhaps I had taken the head of someone who had. "Then you know what I'm capable of doing."

I picked up Krycek's gun, got out of the car, and made my way under the branches to the passenger side. I opened the rear door. "Can you get out?"

Kaos leaned his bulk forward, the tarp sticking to his back as if the healed skin had fused to the plastic. I gave the smallest of moments over to pity, then grabbed the tarp and yanked, ripping his flesh.

He did not scream, so I tore further, fascinated by what I could see under the skin. His anatomy was unlike anything human. The mechanics of motion somehow must have been achieved by smaller units than our muscle and tendon, and I doubted one could understand the substructures with anything less than an electron microscope. They had said the things were shape-shifters, which I had not believed, but the flesh on his back made me think it could be done.

He reached for me, but I dodged his weak attempt, then pulled again on the tarp. His breathing changed, and I watched fresh skin grow in from the sides. That gave me an idea, and I put the tarp back in place, forcing him to heal fused to it again.

"Why?" I asked. "Why did you do it?"

This time he answered. "They offered me a chance to go home."

Krycek asked, "And you believed them?"

Kaos shook his head and dropped it to lean on the back of Krycek's seat. "No. That's why I took the true Immortals up to the vortex sites. I used the power they released as a signal. The rocks amplified it."

"A bonfire on a desert island. And a religion?" I asked. "That seems extreme."

He sat up slightly, looked Krycek in the eye, and said, "It worked better with the willing."

"And you thought it was funny," Krycek said. "I never knew you guys had a sense of humor."

"You know nothing about us," Kaos said, and he lunged toward Krycek.

His neck was exposed and I remembered what they said about where to strike. I plunged the PlaSteel knife into him, just between where the fourth and fifth vertebrae would be on a human.

"No!" I heard Krycek yell.

Kaos spasmed, arcing backwards and driving the blade out the front of his throat. Green ichor bled out of both entry and exit wounds, but there was no spurt of severed artery. Given what I had seen, it would have surprised me more if there had been. I wondered what kind of circulatory system he had as I put my boot on his back for leverage and pulled out the blade.

"God damn it! God damn it!" Krycek screamed, with more raw emotion than I had ever heard from him. It was rage. It was grief. It was real. I ignored it, and bent my way through the low branches to open the trunk and arm myself. I could not have sat with the coat and the two swords, so I hung it on a low branch. With my knife cleaned and sheathed, gun re-holstered, and Krycek's gun tucked in my jeans, I felt whole.

I pulled open Krycek's door to find him kneeling backwards in the seat, clutching his bleeding hand to his chest with the forearm of the prosthetic. "He would have killed you," I said. He didn't answer. He looked pathetic and broken. Pathetic, I believed; broken, I did not.

"Get out," I said. "We have to burn the car and destroy the retrovirus in his blood."

He shook his head, wiped his face and gathered control. "You're not up on your retroviruses. Exposure to air will destroy it."

"I don't want this found." The truth was, I was so unnerved by what had happened when I carried Kaos, smeared in his blood, that I wanted to be sure his destruction was complete.

Krycek was calculating, scheming, rational and correct when he said, "We can't hike back into town. I cant," he raised his bloody hand and continued, "I can't use my fingers."

I could see that the cut was deep. He would be able to curl but not extend, and all movement would be painful with his hand bones destabilized.

"Wait here," I said.

"Like I'm going anywhere," he muttered as I crouched my way under the low branches back to the trunk. If Gantt was as good as he seemed, there would be a field medical kit, rather than a standard first aid box. I wasn't wrong about Gantt.

I stashed my swords again, took the kit back to the driver's side and got in, opened the box and found what I needed. "Let me fix it." At his look I clarified, "Your hand. I've been a doctor several times. There are needles and string in here and I know how to sew the tendons back. It will take a while, but you'll get full use back in time." I put on my best bedside manner.

"What, like _You break it, you fix it?_ You are sick," he said. "I wouldn't need your fucking sutures if you'd just let me have what I wanted."

"Sutures, right. I'd forgotten the technical term," I lied. If he'd gotten what he wanted, I would be no more. If he'd not lied about his motivation, I would feel differently

"Fuck you," he said. "Just how long ago were you a doctor?"

"Hmm?" I threaded the first needle, a curved one good for sewing near bone. "Oh, about the time Mary Shelley first published Frankenstein," I answered as I laid out the forceps I would need, then smiled at him in a Cheshire cat's grin. "You might say I was an inspiration to her."

"You sick fuck." He drew away as I reached for his injured hand. I touched my forehead, a salute and a reminder, then held out my hand, palm up. He looked at it, then up at me. The expression on his face was hard to describe. He hated me, but he saw me again. For that moment, at least, I had bested him. He had to pay attention.

He put his hand down on mine, and I placed it on the elbow rest between us.

"Think you can hold still?"

"Try me," he growled. He was angry, but he needed to prove something—to me or himself, I wasn't sure—and it didn't matter. I gave him an Oxycontin I found in the kit, and he swallowed it dry. I began to work before it would have any chance to affect him. He took the pain, and I stitched together the tendons, tacked muscle, and then closed the skin with a Ford interlocking pattern that could take the stress of him trying to move his fingers. It took hours, and would have gone faster and been more neatly done with magnifying glasses, but the results would allow him to use his hand.

In the end, I covered the wound with an antibiotic ointment with an analgesic built in, bandaged it, then gave him two more of the modern equivalent of tincture of poppies, plus an oral antibiotic. We might have problems with infection, given the circumstances, and peripheral injuries were more prone to such things.

I found myself, despite all the preventive measures, ambivalent about whether he regained use of the hand.

~~~~~

_He was never one to seek advice. He had never taken direction well, but he sensed that MacLeod would send him out on his ass if he complained. They had driven out into the Red Rock State Park, and were performing katas on rough ground. Mulder felt old and out of shape, then admitted to himself that he was old and out of shape. His muscles did not want to respond, and MacLeod's careful lack of judgment was worse than any outright criticism._

_He held up his hand. "I think I'm done."_

_"You've barely started."_

_"I meant for today."_

_"Push it. You'll heal."_

_He regarded MacLeod's sculpted chest and mentally contrasted it with his own. His own flesh sagged in some places, bulged in others, and at this moment everything burned. "Five minutes, at least."_

_"All right. You stop if you want." MacLeod took a breath and took position, working through more difficult moves than he'd shown Mulder._

_Mulder watched for a moment, then asked, "So what do you think happened to Krycek, Gantt and Bierce?"_

_"No idea. I'm sure they'll show up soon."_

_"With Kaos?"_

_MacLeod sliced the air with his sword, and answered, "Or with his head." He flipped his grip and stabbed an invisible enemy behind him._

_"That would be a bad idea. Those things bleed a retrovirus."_

_"Bierce can handle it." MacLeod brought his sword to the center, breathed twice, then looked at Mulder. "Immortal, remember? He's survived plagues before."_

_"Still, not a good idea to bring the head into a populated area."_

_MacLeod said, "I was speaking figuratively. Five minutes are up."_

_Mulder stood and was not as sore as expected. They began the kata again, and he felt his muscles begin to respond like they knew what they were doing. In another hour he felt as if there was strength beneath his skin._

_"That's enough," MacLeod said, and he wiped the dust off his face with his shirt. "Let's get cleaned up and go after them."_

_"Do you think they're in trouble?"_

_"Maybe."_

_Mulder could sense that the answer was really yes, but he kept his peace. It was strange how he could sometimes feel emotions from MacLeod, and he wondered if it were a two-way street. They drove out of the park and up the road into town, quiet until Mulder broke the silence. "I feel different about the world."_

_"It happens," MacLeod said._

_"No, I mean, the things I care about are different."_

_That earned him a sharp glance. "How so?"_

_Mulder wasn't sure how to say what he felt, and the unfamiliarity of the situation made him more reticent. He regretted speaking._

_"How so?" MacLeod asked again._

_"I don't want to go home," Mulder said, only recognizing the truth when he heard himself say it._

_MacLeod smiled, misunderstanding. "If Dana Scully-Mulder is anything like Eryna described, I'm sure she can handle it."_

_Mulder did not voice his thought, but he had images of her aging, old, demented and wheelchair-bound. "I'm not sure I can handle it," he said to himself. "I don't want to watch her grow old and die. I don't want her to see me not age. I don't want to ask her if she knows who the father of our children is."_

_MacLeod said nothing, and Mulder was grateful for it. They made no further comments, and parted ways at the hotel, each seeking his own room. Mulder had stripped for the shower when he heard a knock. The peephole showed Johnson's worried face. He grabbed a towel and opened the door._

_"Agent Johnson?"_

_"Agent Mulder." Her eyes flicked down from his chest to his towel. "I'm sorry. I'll come back later." She turned, then turned back. "Sir? Your wife called me. She's worried that your phone is off."_

_"I'll call her on the land line when we get a minute." Mulder closed the door. He felt nothing. He shouldn't feel nothing._

_He looked at the hotel phone. As an experiment, he picked it up and called his home number._

_Their outgoing message began, and he almost hung up before he realized that she would not recognize the number, and would not answer the phone. He listed to the message Samantha had recorded during her last visit from college, then at the sound of the tone said, "It's me. I'm okay, but my phone is fried. I'll call again when I get a minute."_

_When he hung up, he felt only relief that she hadn't answered, and then, again, the odd blankness at the sound of his daughter's recorded voice. Not his daughter._

_He started to call into the office at Quantico, but realized with a start that it was Saturday. No one he wanted to talk to was likely to be there. He took a shower, turning the water as hot as he could to try to get his shoulders to relax, taking it through to scalding and feeling the sensation of the healing of first degree burns. When the novelty wore off, he dried himself, turned on the TV, and flipped through the channels until he found one that showed skin. He let the pornography further detach his mind, knowing that there was something, some idea, that wasn't coming to the fore. Nield's absence was bothering him. The example of how they had dealt with the twenty Immortal clones made him very worried about how they could take on nearly a thousand._

_An idea came to him, and he looked up at the gang-bang on the screen. He spent a moment contemplating the geometry of the five-on-one before calling Skinner at home. Mulder didn't remember to turn off the TV until Skinner said something about cheesy music and moaning._

_"Now what's this about the Krycek case?"_

_"The murders you sent me after are pretty much irrelevant to the entire story. Krycek may or may not have killed some of them, many of them didn't even stay dead, but it turns out the so-called art dealers were more involved in a conspiracy to create an army of clones that can't be permanently killed unless you cut off their heads."_

_Skinner rubbed his eyes under his glasses. Mulder expected the remembered long-suffering sigh, but Skinner surprised him by saying, "Olympian Chemical, right?"_

_"You knew?"_

_"We suspected, but we wanted independent confirmation."_

_"And Krycek?"_

_"For the moment, he's working for us."_

_"But you didn't trust his information."_

_"Right."_

_"Now what?"_

_"Use the contacts you've made there to find the clones. We haven't had any luck."_

_"Okay. You should know that we think the compound of the alien bounty hunter who calls himself Aleister Kaos was hit by a truck bomb."_

_"Interesting," Skinner said. "No word on whether he's still alive?"_

_"No sir, and may I add that you're not sounding very retired at the moment."_

_Skinner scowled, and Mulder knew he was on to something._

_"CIA?"_

_"Agent Mulder, I play golf."_

_The phone screen went blank, then returned to standby. "Shit." He said._  



	14. Wotan's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epiphanies, revelations, and short, sharp shocks.

>   
>  _Sorry, dear. But there is always a last mistake._   
>  Time Enough For Love   
> 

Krycek would be out of it for several hours, given the drugs I had put in him. I took a deep breath, then let out the tension surgery always brought. I could have that confidence, that disconnected certainty that surgery requires, but today it was not easy for me to maintain. Plus, I had decisions to make.

I called MacLeod, got his phone mail, and left no message. Then I thought for a long time, and called Betty.

"Oh. My. God. Mr. Bierce is that you? You look _deranged_. I thought you were dead. Everyone thinks that you're dead, except for that obnoxious woman from the DCI, and why in the world are they asking questions about where you went to high school?"

"Nice to see you too, Betty," I said. "What obnoxious woman from the DCI?"

"An agent Nield. She's called about six times in the last few days, asking questions, all the same questions about you and where you're from, and all that." Betty interrupted herself. "What in the world are you thinking with those lip rings? They're no disguise, you know, not from anyone who knows you."

"Sasha liked them," I said, and resisted the urge to run my tongue across them. Betty might read pornography about television characters on her lunch hour, but the real thing might cause her embarrassment.

"Sasha! Are you with him? Are you two back together?"

"We got married."

"Oh, how romantic!"

"Betty," I said, in my best lawyer voice to forestall any further enthusiasm, and to avoid telling her that it wasn't Matty and Sasha that got married.

"Mr. Bierce," she answered, pulling herself back into the role of my good right arm.

"What has happened in the Olympian Chemical case? All I know is what was on the news."

"Oh, well, it seemed that when they discovered you wouldn't be representing them personally, they decided not to fight it. I must say that Heyn wasn't best pleased, but he's handled the press well, I think."

I puzzled over the news. What did I have to do with their legal stance? "Did they give any detailed information about their change of heart?"

Betty shook her head. "They seemed to know you were out of the picture before the story hit the news feeds. Are you going to tell me what happened?"

"I was kidnapped," I said, feeling as if a long time had passed between then and now, but it had only been four days.

"Oh, Mr. Bierce! Do you think it had something to do with the case?"

It was only when she asked the question that I wondered if that were true. From what Krycek had told me, Olympian was central to the plans of the Consortium, and that there had been disagreements within the group of codgers before. But as their attorney, I could have taken any change of legal approach in stride. Perhaps the kidnapping was a show, and perhaps it had to do with Krycek, as the old man had told me. Maybe the two were tied together.

"You may have something there," I answered Betty.

"How did you get away?"

"I had help. If someone named Bobby Hobbes comes looking for me, help him out in any way you can."

"Yes, sir. I can't wait to hear the story, and I can't wait to go into the office and tell them you're alive."

"Don't do that," I said, harsher than intended, then softened my voice. "If I'm going to get to the bottom of this, I'll need to stay dead for a while."

"All right."

"But I'll need your help."

"Anything you need."

"Don't we have a complete set of information on Olympian from cases over the years? I need a list of all of their physical facilities."

"What are you looking for?"

"An army."

She blinked at me for a moment and then said, "You're not joking."

"It's a small army. Just under a thousand men. They may have been scattered or they may be in one place, but I'm guessing the location is somewhat remote. It could be an agricultural processing plant or even a mine from the materials company."

"I'll look to see if I can find anything on recent shipments to the areas, purchases of food and clothing," she said.

"Good idea. When do you think you'll have this?"

"Late tomorrow for some of it. There won't be anyone in tomorrow, so it should go faster."

Tomorrow was Sunday. "I'll need it by Monday morning. I've got an idea."

"For what?"

"Betty, you probably shouldn't know. It could be dangerous."

"Well, at least this is more exciting than most corporate litigation."

I looked affronted, and wondered whether it worked with my new hair and piercings. "I thought you liked your job."

"I liked you. The work was okay." She looked at me for a moment. "You're not coming back, are you?"

"I don't think so. At best, I'll end up in the Witness Protection Program." As the words came out, I finalized an exit strategy. "Let's try to keep Mathias Bierce dead."

She nodded. "This number comes up as Matthew Mason."

"Yes. Matthew Mason married Sasha, only under another name. Don't worry, my Last Will and Testament will stay intact."

"What do you mean? Sasha has a different name, too? Are you two in hiding? What will?"

"Sasha was in hiding, it turns out." I let her make of that what she would. No doubt some scenario of his escape from something sordid and Russian was already spinning in her head. "Look, I have to go now. Call this number as soon as you have something."

"All right," she said. "I'm glad you're not dead, Mr. B-- Er, Matthew."

"I picked it so you could still call me Matty," I smiled and added, "to my face."

She pinked, and I said good-bye, then closed the phone. Krycek slept in a drugged stupor, leaning back in the seat with the headrest nearly in the lap of Kaos's corpse. He would need someone to care for him, I thought, until his right hand healed. I was tempted to let him fend for himself, but that wouldn't do. Now was not the time to resolve it, though. I had to flesh out one plan before launching another.

This time MacLeod answered his phone.

"Methos."

He used my name, so I knew he was alone.

"Where have you been?" I asked.

"More important, where are you. What's going on? Mulder and Johnson can't raise Gantt."

"He's dead."

"How?"

"A neat bullet hole in the middle of the forehead, courtesy of my husband."

He looked pained. "You could have less murderous taste in men. Kronos, and now Krycek. I wonder what came in between."

"Alexa," I answered. I hadn't thought about that delicate and doomed beauty in too long, about the one year we had before illness took her. Less than two ten-thousandths of a percent of my life, and it still hurt.

MacLeod closed his eyes, nearly wincing, then recovered himself. "We all have it in us, blah, blah, blah, good and evil, yeah, yeah, I get it. What about Covarrubias? And what happened with Kaos?"

"He shot Covarrubias, too. She's probably dead. Hobbes should have survived, though."

"Who's Hobbes, and what about Kaos?"

"I killed Kaos." I held up the phone so MacLeod could see the corpse. "Hobbes is a long story. He's in his seventies, talks a mile a minute, and I think he works for me. I left him back at the compound, but I think he'll be okay. He was wearing body armor."

"And how is your husband?" MacLeod asked.

"Out cold. I sliced open the back of his hand, and had to stitch it back together."

To my surprise, MacLeod took it in stride. "You didn't kill him?"

"It wasn't like he'd broken a leg," I said, joking, yet not, and he knew it. "Look, I have an idea about what to do about the clones."

"Do you know where they are?"

"No, but I have my secretary working on it."

"You have a secretary?"

"Bierce does, and before you ask, yes I trust her to keep quiet about the fact that I'm alive. Point being, Olympian Chemical was one of my clients, and I would guess they have the clones at one of their more remote facilities. She's checking locations, and seeing if she can track food and clothing shipments that would indicate a large group of people."

"And then what? You wouldn't believe how hard it was with just twenty of them, and only Mulder and I to take the Quickenings."

That was a bit of news. "So he's one of us now, is he?"

"Aye."

"How's he taking it?"

"Hard to say yet."

I swallowed, and asked, "You shared Quickenings? Do you feel a connection to him, like we did after Bordeaux?"

"Yes. I don't think he knows that it's not normal for us."

"You going to take him as a student?"

"Good God, no." He shook his head. "No students. Not now, not ever."

"Never is a long time, MacLeod. Besides, doesn't he wake up your protective urges?"

The answer to my sarcasm was wordless, but even through the screen resolution of the phone, I could see the sour expression.

"Krycek is in love with him," I said.

"They deserve each other," MacLeod said, then added in feigned apology, "Not to criticize your husband, of course."

I half shrugged. "I just criticized him with a knife down the back of his hand. He won't be able to hold a gun or put on his own prosthesis for several weeks."

"Right," he said. He did not have to say more. He knew I had done it so Krycek couldn't do anything more that would make me have to kill him. "So, what's your plan?"

"We find the clones, we get the government to do our dirty work."

"What?"

"Think about it. We can't manage almost thousand Immortals. Let them do it. I turn state's evidence against Olympian Chemical with everything I have on them, which starts with illegal cloning and continues with some dirty business secrets I have in the files of my law office."

"And revealing the existence of Immortals when they try to kill the clones," MacLeod said.

"I don't think so. I think the Watchers can handle that aspect of it. Why don't you run the idea by Agent Johnson."

"And tell her that her partner is dead," he added

"I'm sorry about that. There was nothing I could do."

"Right."

In almost every language there's a way for a one-word agreement to mean the opposite. "MacLeod, I am not heartless. I am sorry. For what it's worth, I liked him."

"Too bad it didn't happen the other way around. From what Mulder has told me, your husband is a complete rat."

"You have no idea," I said, glancing over and remembering. "Besides, ask Mulder what happened last time someone shot Krycek in the head. He's tougher than he looks."

We rang off, and I sat back to think. Instead of concentrating on how to get the government and the Watchers to solve our clone problem, I found myself remembering Alexa. She was far tougher than she looked, as well, but in her spirit and not, sadly, her body.

But that, I realized, was part of why I loved her. Even five thousand years of life leaves room for epiphanies. I loved her more because she was broken, incurably ill, yet full of life and unbowed. Was choosing Krycek a reversion to the patterns that kept me with a mad killer like Kronos for so many centuries?

No. He was broken, too. I looked over, and looked at how the lines on his face and the hard expression that had come with the name Krycek had smoothed in sleep. There I saw Sasha, the skin Krycek had worn that covered his essential isolation, and the person Krycek could have been. Sasha had a flawed body, but he lived with it like Alexa had lived with her illness: ignore it when possible, and never let it interfere with living. Krycek was something different, angrier.

I remembered how he reacted when I told him I thought of him as my husband, and I realized my missed opportunity. That would have been the moment to crack him open at that broken flaw of loneliness. It would not have been hard.

In the last few centuries, it seemed I loved fragile things.

I reached over and ran a finger down his sleeping cheek. I had to be honest. Many of the things I had liked about Sasha were elements of Krycek showing through the mask. I had liked the mystery of why he went armed. I liked the cruelty, in a way, although as Matty and Sasha we had contained it to commentary on the world around us. Sasha was amusing, sometimes intriguing, but Krycek was an invigorating challenge, and so very delicate in his way. Sex with Krycek had fulfilled the promise of Sasha's restraint.

Yes, well, none of that again any time soon. I pushed the threatening emotions back down.

I stepped out of the car to void my bladder, then settled in to wait until the coast was clear.

~~~~~

_Mulder opened the door to MacLeod's knock. "What is it?" he asked, opening to let both MacLeod and Johnson in._

_"Gantt's dead."_

_He looked at Johnson, and her lips were tight._

_"How? Krycek?"_

_MacLeod nodded. "We have an idea. Well, Matt has an idea."_

_Mulder held up a hand and turned to Johnson. "Has anyone found anything on Nield?"_

_"She went to Florida. Some secretary finally turned up a voicemail that said she was going to take care of something with her elderly parents. She took a flight to Tampa, and rented a car."_

_"Is she leading us to the clones, or away from them?"_

_Johnson shrugged. She was too professional to cave in. "I suppose we need to book tickets, then."_

_MacLeod shook his head. "Hear us out, first. There may be a way to take out Olympian Chemical through the DCI. Matt was one of their outside attorneys, and he can bring in additional dirt to illegal cloning."_

_"What does he want for this help?" Mulder had no love for lawyers, but one who could marry Krycek gained a whole new layer of manipulative bastard. "What's in it for him?"_

_"Witness protection program. A new identity."_

_"He's pulled that off already, He went from Mathias Bierce to Paul Adamson to Matthew Mason in less than three days."_

_"Yes, but this would be cleaner for him, give him a chance to start over without having to die."_

_Mulder considered, then asked, "What about Krycek?"_

_Johnson looked up. "What?"_

_"You heard me. What happens to him? We were set up on this from the beginning. Or were you in on it, too?"_

_MacLeod cut in. "Matthew has Krycek and Kaos. Kaos is dead. Krycek has lost the use of his right hand."_

_"How did that happen?"_

_"Matthew did it. Seemed Krycek tried to kill him."_

_"I can't say I'm surprised," Mulder said_

_"What's that?" asked Johnson._

_"Did you know he was working for Skinner?"_

_From the look on her face, Mulder had his answer. She hadn't known._

~~~~~

Krycek's moans woke me. I hadn't intended to doze off, but he'd given me very little sleep last night. The sun was low, and there was quiet, not even the noise of tires on the distant road. It might be time to head back to town, although I would need to do something about the corpse. Better to burn it, I thought, but couldn't see how to do it without making matters worse with the authorities. DCI would have enough trouble covering my tail without making it worse. I moved the branches that blocked in the car, pushed Kaos's body to lie in the seat and covered it as well as I could with the tarp, then started the engine. By the time we got back to the hotel, it was almost dark, and I was hungry.

"Wake up."

Krycek stirred, but he was more awake than he let on.

"Come on, sleeping beauty, let's get you up to the room."

"You're a cheerful bastard," he groaned. "Are you always like this when you maim your lovers?"

"Yes," My smile couldn't have been more cold. "Up we go." I helped him out of the car and up the stairs.

I fished his key card out of my pocket, and led him inside. He was passive as I took off his leather jacket and shirt, then unhooked his prosthetic. He tried to flex his fingers.

"Give that a week or three," I said, as he hissed in pain. I handed him a Tylenol. It was all the painkiller left in the med kit. He took it from me and put it in his pocket, hissing at the pain of moving his hand.

"What are you going to do to me?"

"Nothing, dear boy."

"What, no rape? No pity fuck? No leaving me helpless for housekeeping to find?"

"I suppose there's long legal precedence that you can rape your lawful wedded spouse, isn't there? But I do find it interesting that you present me only with the extremes of options. Either I'll force you against your will, or offer some sort of greeting card solace with condoms?"

He was fighting the last of the Oxycontin, and with the drug wearing off, the pain had to be as distracting as the opiates had been. He tried, though. I suppose he felt he had to.

"I'm sorry, Matt," he began.

I waited, watching his face. As yet, he hadn't met my eyes. When he did not continue, I asked, "Sorry for what?"

"For what I tried to pull. With Kaos. I wanted--" He couldn't find a way to say that he wanted to live forever.

"Everyone does," I said.

He looked up then, hopeful that he might be forgiven. I don't know what he heard in my tone to make him think that could be possible. I kept my face smooth, but he knew me enough to guess that he was wrong.

"Well, fuck," he said. "It's not like you were completely honest with me."

"Mathias Bierce was what he said he was, _Sasha_. I am Bierce, and I am many other things as well."

"Immortal, or multiple personality syndrome?" He tried to joke, but it fell flat.

I merely smiled, like a snake, like a tiger.

"Are you going to kill me?"

"And waste all that effort sewing up your hand?" I could feel no colder than I did at that moment. I loved him, and I could not let that fact change what I had to do to protect myself. My instinct was to walk out the door and never turn back, but there were things left to be done. "I could simply let Mulder have you. From what I can tell, he'd love to get you into the legal system for past crimes."

"No, please, please don't do that."

"Oh, come on. Current prison conditions aren't so bad, and the medical care is a lot better than it once was. I'm sure you'd get physical therapy for your hand in a year or so."

He looked at me with his eyes wide, whether feigned or real, I did not care. If he'd come back at me, if he'd challenged me, I might have found a way to stay with him. Instead, he surprised me.

He begged.

I turned to leave, thinking at first in disgust that I had broken him. Then I looked at him again. "Please don't throw me in that briar patch," I quoted.

He looked confused. "What are you talking about?"

"The Uncle Remus stories, although they're retellings of older African folk tales. Most Americans your age would know the story of B'rer Rabbit and the briar patch."

"I was raised in Russia." His demeanor changed. "I trip on these things now and then. What's the connection?"

"You're trying to get me to do something by claiming you don't want me to do it."

He tried to demur, but I shook my head and walked out, heading back to the crappy hotel room I had rented as Matthew Mason, but not yet slept in.

I'd seen too many tar babies in my time to take a swing at the one he was setting up for me.

~~~~~

_Mulder looked at the room phone after MacLeod and Johnson were gone. Time to try again. This time when the voice message started, he stayed on the line and left the number of the hotel. He waited, then, not turning on the TV for a momentary distraction. The phone rang within a minute._

_"Mulder."_

_"Dana," he said, as if hoping he would feel something more at the sound of her name._

_"What is it? What's wrong?"_

_"I don't think I'm coming home from this."_

_"Krycek. Did you find him?"_

_Mulder nodded. His wife's face had permanent creases between the brow, ones he felt he had put there, and they deepened now as she tried to decipher him yet again._

_"Mulder, drop it. Whatever this case is, just drop it. Let those two other agents handle it. Come home."_

_"I can't."_

_He knew what his tone of voice must be telling her, and he hoped there was enough regret in it, and to be sure, he added, "I'm sorry, Dana. Agent Gantt has been killed, and I can't leave Johnson alone."_

_"Then send that Nield woman. You said she needed more field experience."_

_"She's gone. I think she was the insider."_

_"For a bunch of art world murders?"_

_"It's much more than that. That was just a red herring to get me in, but I don't know why they bothered. Krycek alone would have done it, and it turns out they have Krycek on a leash."_

_"You know better than that. Krycek doesn't stay on anyone's leash."_

_He considered her words. Skinner had said that Krycek was working for them for the moment, whoever they were, and that implied they still did not trust him._

_"Mulder? Talk to me."_

_"I don't know what to think. I think the goal is to bring down Olympian Chemical."_

_"The company that just open-sourced their miracle corn? What's wrong with them?"_

_"They own Zeus Diagnostics, for one."_

_It was her turn to be silent._

_"This involves an army of clones, and there's more to it than that. It has to be stopped. It's them, Dana, the old Syndicate."_

_"Do what you have to, love," she said, her voice fearful and resigned. "Shall I come, too?"_

_"No." He knew he said it too fast._

_"What else is there? What's going on?"_

_He wished he hadn't called her. Too many years of a comfortable life had made him forget how clearly she saw through him._

_"I am not our children's biological father," he said, and from her expression the fact was not news to her. "Who is?"_

_She hesitated, looking away before answering. "Walter. When the first IVFs didn't work, they called and said there was something wrong with your sperm, something strange that they couldn't diagnose. I wondered if it had to do with... experiments you've undergone, and I didn't want to drag you through that. I didn't want you to be hurt."_

_"So you asked our dear friend Director Skinner."_

_"Mulder--"_

_He hung up the phone, and pulled the cord out of the wall._

  



	15. Wotan's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mulder realizes that MacLeod isn't stupid, and Methos takes one for the team.

>   
>  _Don't believe what they tell you about me while I'm gone--regrettably it's all true._   
>  Farnham's Freehold    
> 

 

"Matty," Betty said, "I have three possibilities."

She hadn't even said hello in her excitement. "I'm well, Betty, and how are you this fine Monday morning?"

"Be still, you, and listen to my news."

"I never should have given you leave to call me Matty," I said. "It's made you take all sorts of liberties."

"Fine, _Mis_ ter Mason," she said. "I'll just keep these little details to myself."

"All right. I'm sorry. What did you find?"

"Three places where Olympian has dormitory-style housing in remote locations, capable of accommodating nearly a thousand people. Well, they could be camps for guest agricultural workers, but the season isn't right for Ohio or Michigan. Florida could be in use right now for the citrus harvest, but they don't do citrus. Anyway, there were food shipments to all three in the last weeks."

"So they've split them up?"

"No. The northern sites were visited within 6 hours of delivery by empty trucks, which left loaded."

"Distractions."

"Right. It gets better. All the loaded trucks went to the Florida site."

"Which is where?"

"East of Fort Myers. There are still orange groves between the tourist area and the Everglades."

My geography was failing me. "Everglades?"

"It's a very big swamp that covers a lot of the southwest of the state. Alligators, snakes, that kind of thing. I saw a documentary about it once. They drive around in air boats."

I raised my eyebrows. "So, you think they're there?"

"Well, think about it. People don't just go wandering around in Florida, not unless they know how to avoid 'gators, rattlers, coral snakes and water moccasins."

"Lethal house shoes?" I'd kept myself to the room all day, and was bored. Teasing Betty was the most fun I'd had in hours.

"It's a kind of snake. Oh. Stop yanking my chain."

"And how do you know so much about it? Ah yes, the documentary."

She looked uncertain for a moment. "Well, I also asked some advice."

"From whom?"

"An on-line friend of mine grew up down there, so I told him I was working on a story and asked him a lot about the area."

"I didn't know you were a writer. When will you let me read your work?"

She blushed. "Sometime next _Never_."

I let her off the hook. "So, if the migrant workers are living in the dormitories for the citrus harvest, where are the clones?"

"Clones?"

I forgot that I had only mentioned the army, not the makeup thereof. "Clowns. Where are the clowns, like in the song."

"I think they're near the swamp, sir. People don't go there."

"Right. Good work. Can you email me the details? And don't call me sir."

"Yes, sir, Matty, sir."

"You vile, indispensable woman. Sometime in the last week you seem to have turned twelve."

She smiled and terminated the connection. I immediately called MacLeod.

"Matthew?"

He was not alone. "We have a potential site. Florida. Betty will be sending me the details by email in a few moments."

"Good. I'll tell Mulder and Johnson."

"How's my husband?"

I could tell MacLeod did not like my use of the word, but all he said was, "Cranky."

"What a miracle that Johnson worked her way through university as a home healthcare aid."

"Oh, I'm sure Krycek appreciates that."

"Yes, nothing like a trained and lethal agent helping you take a piss."

We laughed, but only for a moment. MacLeod said, "You should hear the things he says about you."

"I can only imagine. What else is he doing?"

"Telling stories, it seems. Mulder's spending a lot of time with him, asking questions about things that happened twenty-five years ago."

"And Krycek is probably lying through his teeth."

"So Mulder thinks." MacLeod shrugged. "It's better than the death threats they were throwing at each other."

"Nothing says love like a thirty-five millimeter."

"You should know. What do we do with him when we move out?"

"Send him back to Denver and let my secretary take care of him. She adores Sasha."

"She'll be getting Krycek."

"No, I don't think so," I said. "I think he'll pull the act long enough to get back use of his hand, and then disappear. There's enough money in Bierce's will to facilitate that. Anyway. I'll forward the information to your email as soon as Betty sends it."

"I'll look forward to it."

"Bored?"

"Very."

"Take a walk, then," I suggested. "There are enough headhunters around that I'm sure you'll find a sparring partner."

He ignored my malice. "I'll look for your mail," he said, and ended the call.

I made a face at the lurid sunset painting hanging above the bed. I kept separate from the others in this grotty hotel room, the one I had rented before I found Krycek, by choice. Still, I was about ready to take a drive up to the Grand Canyon to ease the boredom and restlessness.

My laptop beeped, and I found Betty's information waiting in my email. I studied it for a hour before sending it to the others, then read news sites about Olympian Chemical, the bloggers alternately praising the release of GenaCorn and attributing some more Machiavellian rationale to my clients. I suspected the latter was the case.

A knock at the door was a welcome relief, but when I looked to confirm that MacLeod had come to annoy me, I was pleasantly surprised to see the bald head of Bobby Hobbes.

"Mr. Bierce," he said, as I let him in. He carried a half-empty gallon jug. "You have excellent taste in water carriers."

"Nice to see you walking."

"Nice to be here. Care to fill me in on the latest developments?"

~~~~~

_"How convenient for you that it's in Florida," Mulder said to Skinner._

_"We're not certain."_

_"No, but I'm assuming you have the capacity to check it out."_

_"Alligator Alley is not my favorite stretch of road, Agent Mulder."_

_Mulder hated this. One of his oldest friends, hell the father of his children, it seemed, and they were reduced to referring to each other by titles. Still, it was the only way he could keep his temper. He wondered if Dana had told Skinner that he knew. "I was assuming that you had resources."_

_"Maybe. There's someone here that I can send."_

_"Anyone I know?"_

_Skinner merely smiled without showing his teeth, an old smile that Mulder distrusted. "So, when do we move in?" he said, trying not to display his feelings._

_"_ If _this is the place, it'll take a few days to make the arrangements."_

_"They can move operations in that time. They have to know something is going on, after Krycek blew up Kaos's compound and we were set up to encounter a couple dozen clones."_

_"I'm sure they do, but they're moving a full battalion, and that takes time. We'll need to decide the best course of action, and that takes time as well."_

_"I thought the course of action was to take them out."_

_"That may be the case, but if what you tell me about their regenerative capabilities is true, that's not the easiest task."_

_Mulder kept his mouth closed. If Johnson and Gantt had X-files about Immortals, it was damn certain that Skinner knew about them as well, probably knew more than Mulder had been able to tell him. He didn't like Skinner playing ignorant on any count. Considering what Krycek had been telling him, Skinner had to have known more than he let on all along. It had been a very long time since he had mistrusted Walter Skinner, and he did not like the feeling. The knowledge of over twenty years of a lie of omission about Samantha and Walter's parentage hit him deeply._

_"Mulder," Skinner began, then looked hesitant._

_"Sir?"_

_Skinner looked pained. "Walter. Please?"_

_"Sure, if you stop calling me Agent like I'm some young punk about to be called on the carpet in your office. Sure, if you're going to tell me the truth."_

_"Okay. That's fair. Look, I wanted to ask you something. You're different now, aren't you?"_

_"Different how?"_

_"I know, Mulder. I heard you were shot in the chest and drove back into Sedona with nothing wrong but a stain on your shirt."_

_Mulder said nothing, wondering how Skinner knew._

_"One of the options we've contemplated is repurposing the clones. They'd need someone like them as a commander."_

_"I'm not military," Mulder said, before he realized he was not dismissing the idea._

_"I think you'd pick it up pretty quick. Just think about it. We want to keep all our options open."_

_Mulder shook his head. It was a crazy idea. "I thought you used to criticize me for being a lone wolf. What makes you think I'd be a good leader?"_

_"You_ suck _as a follower." Skinner's crass choice of words startled Mulder. "You work alone, or you run the show, and nothing in between. I think you can run the show here. Your abilities in psychology would be a distinct advantage in motivating and molding these soldiers."_

_"I was a profiler, not a psy-ops propagandist. Besides, what makes you think I'd toe your line?"_

_"Do you really want to kill over seven hundred people?"_

_"Unrelated question."_

_Skinner's face gave nothing away. "Just think about it. Please."_

_"Good night, sir."_

_Mulder looked at the dead phone. It was an insane idea._

_MacLeod had told him he needed a teacher. In some ways, Mulder realized, Walter Skinner had been trying to teach him for a long time in lectures given by facial expressions and misdirected words. He had never liked the presumption of teachers, especially those who were not the sanctioned, necessary evils of the academy, of university. It was no more palatable now._

~~~~~

It was Sunday night. Five days ago I'd been blissfully unaware of aliens, alien bounty hunters, successful human cloning, and Fox Mulder. My partner was an art dealer, I was an attorney, and there was no such thing as little green men. In all these centuries I have come to understand that circumstances will change in swift and unexpected ways, but it doesn't mean I can't be surprised. I was surprised by the last week, every bit of it.

Bobby Hobbes had gone ahead to Florida, armed with a credit line. We were waiting for Mulder's government people to decide what to do. I regretted my idea to let the government take care of the problem. The lure of a shiny new identity had dulled my instincts. Governments never did anything quite they way you wanted them to. I should know since I'd run my share of them.

I called MacLeod.

"Methos."

"I'm leaving."

"I'm not surprised."

"Don't look at me like that. I'm not taking off for parts unknown. I want to start down to Florida."

"I thought we agreed that you, me, Mulder and Eryna would stick this out."

"I'll be sticking. I'll just be getting to the rendezvous on my own."

"You took your lip rings out."

"I got bored. You should have seen where I tried putting them, just for the novelty."

MacLeod squinted at me. "I wouldn't want to know."

"So, you should be glad I called to tell you instead of leaving a note."

"Thank heaven for small favors."

"I can't stay here. I won't be trapped in a hotel room for another day and then try to fly and get the damned weapons through."

"All right." MacLeod cut me off before I could warm up to my subject., which annoyed me. I needed a good rant. My inner five year old was in full force.

"I don't need your permission."

"Despite the fact that you just asked for it."

"I did not. I merely called to inform you of my plans."

"You could just leave a note."

"Stop it. We're both bored and restless. Ask Mulder to arrange escort for Krycek back to Denver. If he's been working with that Skinner fellow, the government can handle it."

"I'm not sure Mulder's done with him, yet."

A part of me enjoyed Krycek's torture, even if I wasn't there to see it. I'd hate to be subjected to Mulder, especially given the man's current state of mind, and there wasn't much Krycek could do to avoid it, other than go into the bathroom and lean against the door, which MacLeod told me was his usual means of escape.

And escape was what I meant to do. I didn't lie to MacLeod. I would meet them in Florida to see this through, but I needed space and road. In the old days I'd have taken my horse and a water skin, and picked a direction. This time I put my meager baggage in Michael Sanders' car, and headed for the highway. I'd checked MapQuest before I packed, and it said I had thirty-eight hours of driving ahead of me. The car's GPS said thirty-seven hours and forty-five minutes.

~~~~~

_This was his last chance for swordsmanship practice, and he pushed himself hard. MacLeod had called a break, and Mulder put down the sword, glad for the rest. He liked these sessions, but he liked better that he could get MacLeod to talk. The man had a serious hero complex, but he also had a lot of battlefield and leadership experience._

_"Tomorrow, then?"_

_MacLeod nodded, and Mulder was gratified that he seemed to be catching his breath as well. "Eryna has flights booked out of Phoenix. We'll have a day in Florida to get our bearings before moving in Wednesday night."_

_Mulder was bothered that Johnson kept MacLeod informed better than him. "I thought the idea was to let the government handle it."_

_"Do you trust them?" MacLeod asked._

_Mulder said nothing for a moment, then changed the subject. "So here's one for you," he said, using the phrase they'd come to use for hypothetical questions. "What would you do with an Immortal army? How would you use them differently from conventional forces? More canon fodder, or more high-risk behind the lines operations?"_

_MacLeod looked at him. They'd been telling stories and playing thought games for several days, with MacLeod as surprised and skeptical about aliens as anyone, despite his own improbable nature. "I thought the idea was to catch them in their beds."_

_"What if we miss them?"_

_"Your people have people watching the site. We'll know if they try to leave, or if they're alerted."_

_Mulder shrugged. This wasn't like the other conversations, when MacLeod seemed to disappear into a memory as they talked, narrating the story in complete detail. Immortals seemed to have eidetic memory, which made Mulder wonder if the perfect recall he had since childhood was some sort of sign. "I guess," he said. "I was thinking about what you told me, about how a challenge is different from a battle. Strategy, tactics, reaction--how they change. What would be the effect of war fought by Immortals?"_

_"Pray it never happens," MacLeod said._

_"This Gathering I heard you mention? That would be a war among Immortals, and I was thinking of--"_

_"I know what you were thinking. A war where Immortals formed part of one army. Don't think it."_

_Mulder knew when to back off. He nodded. "Just thinking."_

_"Don't. Shall we again? I think you're getting the hang of it. If you're really good, I might even show you the_ coup de fin _."_

_"The blow of the end? Final blow?" Mulder translated. "Sounds drastic. Where did you learn that?"_

_"My kinsman. He taught me the move in Italy."_

_"I thought your kind were all foundlings, no kin."_

_"Your kind?" MacLeod arched an eyebrow._

_"Okay, us. We."_

_"And is there no one you call Father? Brother? Cousin?"_

_"Yes. Sister, actually, and except for the cousins it's all past tense."_

_MacLeod looked at him. "So, you see? We live. We lose those we love. We build families. We lose them again."_

_Mulder bit back a sarcastic retort about losing families and took the opening. "Is Matthew, or whatever his name is, part of your family?"_

_"Black sheep."_

_"He's older than you."_

_"Maybe."_

_"You called him_ old man _."_

_"What do want from this conversation?"_

_Mulder wasn't prepared for MacLeod to step off script, and reminded himself that the man hadn't lived to be nearly five hundred years by being stupid or unobservant. He said, "Your black sheep's husband killed my--. The man I knew as my father."_

_MacLeod surprised him again. "I know."_

_"What, did he need to brag about it?" Mulder's voice had a weird, sharp drawl in his own ears as he imitated Krycek, "'Let me tell you about Mulder, and by the way, I whacked his old man.'"_

_"No." MacLeod snorted, or maybe sighed. "He didn't put it that way. He was right about one thing."_

_"What's that?"_

_The laughter was dark. "I used to think Matthew was the most self-centered ass I knew."_

_Mulder shot to his feet, sword ready, and attacked MacLeod, putting to use everything he'd been taught in the last few days. The anger broke suddenly when MacLeod had him, holding off a blow that would have taken his head, and they were close and nearly tangled. "The_ coup de fin _," MacLeod said, and laughed again, low and knowing, in his face. "Never let anger rule you."_

_"So," Mulder said, then swallowed. "What happened to the kinsman who taught you this move?"_

_He read pain in MacLeod's eyes, a momentary flash that settled into a mirthless smile. "Conner? I killed him with it."_

 

~~~~~

I put the fuel nozzle back in its cradle and stretched, momentarily cursing myself for giving up a nice ride on an airplane. On the other hand, I wouldn't have had the opportunity to fill the trunk of Sanders' car with fireworks on my way through Texas. I always forgot how big Texas was until I had to drive across it.

Louisiana was another story. Everything was close and dark, swampy-feeling even in the northern part of the state and worse here, east of New Orleans. I was at a filling station on an exit where the only thing that had changed in thirty years was that pornography came over the Internet, rather than from well-worn and borrowed tapes. Stickers advertising such web sites were on the back of the old cash register.

My mistake was going in to piss in their foul urinal instead of on some nice hygienic tree.

There were two men leaning on the car when I came out of the small store with a bottle of energy drink and a pack of cigarettes. I didn't smoke often, but a cigarette gave me forty more miles of alert driving. The looks on the unshaven faces, one body blocking the driver's door, and the other leaning on the trunk, made me wonder if I'd get into the car at all. This was not good.

"Nice bumper stickers, faggot."

Oh, crap. I'd forgotten about Sanders' collection of Gay Pride kitsch. Glancing around, I saw three others sitting on the back of a pickup like this was the evening's entertainment. Two were fat-bellied and holding beer bottles, one rail thin, smoking a joint. I scented the air, trying to determine if the two I faced were drunk or high. They were, and it would make them stupid, and harder to avoid killing. The last thing I needed would be police chasing me the rest of the way to Florida.

Getting through this without killing them probably meant letting myself be raped and killed. I spoke the words I knew would provoke them, and in the end, closed my eyes and thought of Krycek.

~~~~~

I came to life with a horrible pain in my foot, pants around my knees, and the feel of mud under my ass. My arm and leg sheaths were still attached, since they'd only bared enough of me to use. The pain shot through me again, and I opened my eyes. A damned alligator was trying to pull me under the water. Lucky for me they like to let their meat rot for a few days, so it hadn't just started dining, but was dragging me down for proper aging. I drew the knife from its arm sheath and stabbed it in the eye. "Bugger off."

It thrashed as I twisted the knife through its skull, but it let go of my boot. I backed away and cleaned my knife on the wet grass as the beast died behind me.

It took a few minutes to scrape and rinse off enough mud that I could dress. There was dried blood on my thighs and my head, crusted semen on my face. I vaguely remembered a kick to the skull. Time to get my bearings and find my car. I found the road, then the right direction by looking where the sky was slightly lighter. I judged the time to be about 3:30 or 4:00 in the morning, so my gracious hosts were likely passed out somewhere. The keys were still in my pocket, indicating that the car should still be at the gas station.

MacLeod can track on bare ground, but it takes other skills in the modern world. Lights and smells and the sounds of tires and animals gave me direction. The first gas station I found had a map posted that led me to the one nearer the highway where I figured my car was waiting. By the time I reached it, it was first light, a half hour or so from sunrise. The car still stood at the pump, but the bumper stickers had been used for batting practice. I thanked the random gods of fools and idiots that they hadn't decided to shoot it. Between the Texas fireworks and the fuel pumps, there would have been an explosion worthy of Mr. Hobbes' truck bomb.

Part of me wished they'd done it, and blown themselves to hell. Part of me wanted to do it now, but I needed the car. Logic dictated that I not leave a trail of bodies, and I had chosen the path, true, but it didn't mean I liked taking it. I hated the world, right now, and every one in it. Damn logic. Damn necessity.

I looked at the car. There were only dents and one missing window on the rear passenger side, a surprising dearth of damage. They must have worn themselves out on my body and planned to ransack the car later. The car started, and I took off toward the highway, backtracking to Slidell, an area built up enough that even fag bashers would leave me alone in a public place. At a truck stop, I grabbed my duffle and paid for a shower, tipping twice the cost of the shower at the look on the attendant's face. I had to be a sight.

There were teeth marks in my left boot, but it was still wearable. I used the rag of my shirt--it seemed I'd been stabbed twice after I passed out--to clean up after myself, leaving the shower room in hardly worse condition than I had found it. In the mirror I saw myself with the stubble on my head and face. I decided to shave my face, but to let my head look like, perhaps, a military haircut. I put the razor away, straightened my shoulders, and walked out of the shower a new man, shaping my head around a new identity and bearing, straight shouldered and uniform crisp, even in my jeans and gray sweatshirt.

I had every intention of heading back west and then south to New Orleans, but I had another guest waiting for me. A highway patrolman was leaning on the car.

"Officer?"

"This your car?" He was no longer trim, but not in bad shape for pushing sixty.

"It belongs to a friend." My accent sounded American and slightly southern. Military neutral, like my chosen persona.

"Michael Sanders? That the friend?"

"Uh, yeah," I said, surprised, but not enough to break character. "Is something wrong?"

"Can I see some identification, please?"

Thankfully the idiots had not found my wallet where I'd left it in the glove box. I handed over Matthew Mason's driver's license.

"We had an APB out on this car last week. DCI was looking for it. When I called it in, it seems they've pulled the call."

"Has something happened to Sanders?"

"Don't know." He looked at me, handed back the ID. "You've cut your hair."

I looked at the identification card. Matthew Mason's photograph was shaggier than my current look. "Yes, sir."

"I can't let you drive off with that window uncovered."

"Okay. I can't afford to replace it right now. Would it be okay to tape plastic on it?"

"Yep. You coming from Camp Villere, son?" He named a military base I'd passed west of Slidell.

I decided to risk a slight deception, so I lowered my voice and said, "I can't really talk about it."

"The folks in the truck stop said you came in looking like the Swamp Thing."

I shrugged.

"Folks up the road called in about some boys over in Crawford Landing bragging about throwing some faggot to the 'gators and bashing in his pansy-assed bumper stickers." He nodded toward the back of Sanders' car.

"Is that all they said?" I asked, my voice still quiet.

"Nope." He looked at me. "I've half a mind to haul you to the hospital and have you checked over. The way they were talking, I wouldn't think you could walk."

"That won't be necessary, sir."

"Know what was found when someone went to check the site?"

"I can't imagine."

"A dead 'gator. Decent sized one, about six feet. Someone had stabbed it in the eye, down through the skull. We had someone take a look at it. There were no metal fragments. That means PlaSteel. That means military."

I said nothing for a moment, wondering why they'd done a forensic analysis on an alligator, then held up my boot where the teeth marks showed. "I thought it was only about five and a half feet."

"So tell me, son, how much of the rest of what those boys were saying is true?"

"If I don't survive, I won’t be able to complete my mission, sir."

"They teach you _survival first_ , don't they?"

I wasn't sure which branch of the military he meant, so I stayed non-committal. His manner looked as if he were expecting some sort of sign and counter sign, so I said, "It would have been discourteous to men like you to have left casualties."

That seemed to satisfy him for some reason. "All right. I'll give you a lift to the hardware store for plastic and tape so you can get going." We made the trip in silence, and he waited while I bought what was necessary to get the car back on the road in a legal fashion. "You need anything else?" he asked as he dropped me at the truck stop.

"I don't think so, sir. This is a big help."

"One thing, son. Just one favor in return."

"What's that, sir?"

"Don't even think about coming back for revenge, Mr. Mason. If that's your name. We'll take care of 'em."

I nodded. "Thank you, sir. I figure that will do."

"I always did say you Recon Marines were a bunch of pansies."

I took another gamble. "We say the same thing about the SEALS, sir."

He laughed at that. "And that's why we Airborne get all the girls."

I got out of the cruiser with my bag of supplies, and he came around to hand me my duffle from the trunk.

"Good luck, son."

I shook his offered hand, then saluted, careful to keep my hand horizontal in American fashion.

I jury rigged the window, got in the car, and sat for a moment to decide what to do. I cursed the trooper for being kind, and drove East toward the Alabama border. I could make the north part of Florida before even the cigarettes wouldn't keep me awake.  



	16. Wotan's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Hell breaks loose.

>   
> _Death is the lot of all of us and the only way the human race has ever conquered death is by treating it with contempt. By living every golden minute as if one had all eternity._  
>  Guest of Honor Speech  
>  at the XIXth World Science Fiction Convention, Seattle, 1961

 

 

"It's past time." Mulder seemed to be on the edge of whining, and I looked at him, sweltering in a long trench coat over his DCI T-shirt, wondering what Krycek saw in him. "They're late."

"Everyone with a watch is aware of that fact," said Skinner.

I looked at the old man, the frame holding some traces of the robust soldier he must have been underneath the guayabera shirt. He looked at Mulder with an expression that was part indulgent parent, part irritated superior, and I was starting to wonder if I was participating in some kind of bizarre coming-of-age drama with a fifty-something protagonist. I looked at MacLeod to see if he sensed it, too, but his eyes were on the road, a two lane strip that cut through the palmetto scrub. We waited in a promontory of asphalt in front of a crumbling building. It had been a gas station once, and we stood in the circle of one sodium street lamp shining down in a broad yellow pool of light.

Johnson swatted at a mosquito that had landed near the sleeve of her T-shirt, and looked over at Skinner and Mulder. I could read nothing in her face, shining with perspiration and strangely colored, like all of ours, under the yellow light. I could feel my own sweat making my shirt cling, with no breeze to dry it off. When she turned to me, I raised my eyebrows in question. She shrugged, canting her head and slightly moving her eyes up the road where the clones supposedly waited, nothing given away in her expression. She had just told me that there were Watchers in place. I hoped Hobbes had found them.

"I don't like this plan," I said to no one. If I were honest, I would admit that I was close to whining as well. It was humid as well as hot, and I was not looking forward to the maelstrom of several hundred Quickenings going off at once. I'd shared a double Quickening once with MacLeod. I wanted none of that intimacy with Mulder.

MacLeod finally said, "You know why we're doing it this way."

"If an event like this will trigger the Gathering, do you really want us within sword's reach of each other?"

"We're the lightening rods, Methos. We're supposed to keep it from triggering."

"What did you call him?" Skinner asked.

"Mathias," MacLeod answered smoothly.

MacLeod's slip showed he was nervous enough to be distracted, but I said. "I know the theory. It's the practice I'm worried about."

I worried about more than that. MacLeod had always called me Matt on our cell phone chats during the last two days in a clear indication that nothing said was private. I had no idea what he thought about the plan, such as it was. Our group would be close enough that we might catch the Quickenings, and would be guarded by Skinner and Johnson.

I looked at Skinner, who had acted as if he barely noted me, but watched me at odd moments, probably suspicious of a man who would marry Krycek. I'm sure I would be. I decided to confirm his fears. The more off-balance I could get him, the more he might give away.

A costume shop in Fort Myers had supplied the modern equivalent of blue wode, and I pulled the flat container and sponge out of my pocket. The required gestures still lived in my muscle memory, and I colored half my face in an asymmetrical pattern, needing no mirror.

"What the hell are you doing? What is that?" MacLeod asked.

He hadn't really needed to ask. He already knew, in that way we had developed, in that connection I did not like to think about, but for the benefit of others I said, "My old war makeup. It seemed fitting. There's going to be a lot of death." My smile was cold and thin-lipped. It was too soon to bare fangs. I dabbed some under his eyes, Indian fashion, unsurprised that he did not lean away.

"What do you think is going to happen here?" MacLeod's voice had that edge of incredulity one might expect, but something in his manner, something that seemed purposeful, showed me he knew there was more going on that we'd been told.

I almost laughed at that. It seemed he could learn subtlety after all.

Skinner was paying close attention. Johnson stared, cataloging the scene for the private Chronicle I knew she would maintain if she survived the night.

I answered MacLeod, "I think that given the elements in play, it's not possible to know what will happen. If they're planning a larger scale version of what we did at Kaos's compound, they'll bomb, then small arms, then machetes to take the heads."

"Yes," said Mulder, looking distractedly at his watch. "If you'd stayed with us, you'd have been briefed. Or if you arrived on time." He seemed uncomfortably hot with a long coat over his T-shirt. It amused me to think about how he had to adapt to needing a sword.

"I was unavoidably detained outside Slidell."

"So you say. There's not much there but swamp."

"And redneck queer bashers."

"What?" asked MacLeod. I knew he could feel my anger at the memory.

I walked up to Mulder, annoyed that he was taller and that he looked at my face as if the paint were some ridiculous child's game. My voice had a thousand years of killing in it, and I pushed myself into his space. "I let myself be raped and murdered to get here, Fox. I let them do it so I wouldn't have to kill them and disrupt your plans. If you don't need me here, I am happy to leave. I took out Kaos for you. I took five dicks for you. I lost my husband for you." Sometimes telling the truth was fun, and I colored my voice with emotion.

Mulder did not change his expression, or his tone. "Krycek is still alive, and if you're having relationship problems it's not my concern."

"Sasha Lisitsa was my husband. Thanks to you, we're left with Krycek."

"He named himself after me. Lisitsa is Russian for fox," Mulder said to Skinner. He looked down at me. "I think that means he was never yours, Bierce."

I had a knife to his throat before he could finish saying the name.

I felt the cold barrel of a gun at my temple. "I'm sure you're Immortal, Mr. Bierce, but it probably takes a long time to recover from a bullet in the head." I glanced down the arm holding the gun to look at Skinner, who did not smile, thanking him for following my script whether he knew it or not. "You are tolerated because we need you," he said.

I backed away from Mulder, and watched the aftermath. Skinner lowered the gun and shared a glance with Mulder that was proprietary and approving on his part, but suspicious and annoyed on Mulder's. I snorted a few times as if regaining control and sheathed the knife. My suspicions were further supported.

"Matt, what is wrong with you?" MacLeod asked, pulling me aside, out past edge of the circle of light. "You were raped?" His eyes and voice were soft, and I let him lead me, playing along.

"They bugged your room, didn't they?" I asked.

"And phone."

"Are you wired?"

"I don't think so. I flushed two in the men's room at the last food stop." He touched my shoulder gently, as if comforting a woman.

I shook off his hand, irritated in truth and in character, and spoke quietly. "Johnson has Watchers here. I don't know how many, but she expected about a hundred. Bobby Hobbes got here on Monday. He's wired the barracks with radio-controlled explosives covered with some goo that makes them invisible."

"What?"

"Oh, come on, you've had a week of Mulder and his aliens. What's wrong with a little invisibility? We also have fireworks for a distraction."

"You don't think they're planning to kill the clones." MacLeod said.

"I wouldn't if I were them. I would take that ready-made army and make them my own."

MacLeod looked at me, disappointed.

"It's useful to have someone around like me. I can guess what the other bastards are thinking."

He gave a small tilt of his head, agreement and rebuke both. "How would they control them?"

"Did you tell Mulder about what happened to us in Bordeaux? About sharing the Quickenings and that--"

"Connection between us," he finished. "Yeah. I did. After sharing twenty Quickenings with Mulder, I had to explain it to him. I have it with him, too."

"So you said. I'm sorry," I said.

"Do you think he's trying to recreate that on a large scale?"

"Idiot," I whispered to remind him to keep his voice down. "Of course I do. Think about it. After taking Connor's head, and then Kell's, you have one of the most powerful Quickenings around."

"And then there's you."

I nodded. "There's me. That should be enough for a few hundred clones."

"So instead of us taking their Quickenings, they want them to take ours."

"They'll kill us, and Mulder and all the clones will share our Quickenings."

"You think it will work without Kaos? That it will connect them somehow?"

"Maybe," I said, "I think Skinner's got something lined up, and envisions Mulder as their fearless leader. If they can do it right. It won't be easy, but they seem to have a plan."

MacLeod's mouth tightened. "He's been asking me military questions all week."

"Keep in character," I said, dropping my face into one hand. "You're calming a friend who was gang raped."

"That really happened?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm angry about that, too. When this is over--"

"No. I promised someone I'd let it go. I only brought it up as a way to test Mulder's reactions. He didn't even blink at the idea. We're dead already as far as he's concerned."

"I don't think it will work," MacLeod said. "At Bordeaux we had simultaneous Quickenings. You killed Silas, and I killed Kronos."

"Up on the mountain with the other clones, you and Mulder didn't kill any of them," I said.

"So if someone else kills us?"

"And they're close enough," I finished. "Maybe. Either way, we're dead."

"Everything all right, gentleman?" Skinner said, walking over to us.

"What do you think?" MacLeod was in full righteous indignation mode.

"I think we need to focus here."

"Fuck you," I said, and turned away to call Betty. The phone signal here was bad, so I opted for voice only to boost the connection.

"Matty?"

"Betty, how's Sasha?"

"How would I know?"

"What?"

"He called and said he would be staying somewhere else. He didn't say where."

"How did he look? Stressed? Tired?" Coerced? I wondered.

"Not well. A little nervous, I supposed. Maybe he thought I'd take skin off his hide for hurting you."

That did not bode well. "I have to go."

"What's going on?"

"If I can call you later, I will."

"Speaking of wills, what's this letter I got about yours?"

"Later, Betty." I cut the connection.

"Where is he?" I asked Mulder.

He did not have to ask who I meant. "In a secure facility," Mulder said, keeping his voice even.

"What do you mean?"

Skinner answered. "We've been trying to flush Alex Krycek for fifteen years. You can't imagine we'd just release him back into the wild. Besides, I want to know why the bullet I fired into his head didn't kill him. Unless you happen to know why."

I did not like the thought of them taking Sasha apart. "He has PlaSteel fused to his skull."

Skinner nodded, as if that settled the question, but I was sure it wouldn't change anything. Krycek was now their lab rat. I asked, "So you were behind the SUVs that showed up at the house across the street? Learn anything fun?"

"The first clue was watching you two gear up in the morning. It's kind of a give-away when you need to go armed to a law firm or an art gallery."

Mulder looked at Skinner. "I thought Krycek was working with you on this."

That was news to me, but might explain something.

I shook my head. Something wasn't right. "If Krycek was working with you, why the clumsy operation to flush us?"

"I did not recruit him until after he left Denver. You were an added bonus. No, the art dealer Sasha Lisitsa was seen in the company of one Marita Corrivubias a little too often. When the photographs finally reached me, I realized it was Krycek."

"And Marita was what?"

"Was?" Skinner asked.

"Didn't your pet fox tell you that she's dead?"

"I don't think she is," Mulder said.

"I saw her shot in the back, and bleeding," I said.

Mulder shrugged. "Krycek aimed low, and he knew rescue operations were on their way and an ambulance would find her. He has a hard time killing people he's been," Mulder paused and shrugged again before choosing his word, "intimate with."

"And that's why he won't kill you?" I asked. The leap came from remembering how Krycek spoke about him, how clear it was that he loved him, and when Mulder shrugged, I knew it was right.

Skinner turned to look at him, his face dark. "That explains a few things. Care to tell my why you haven't seen fit to inform me of this yourself?"

Mulder looked at him, his voice cool. "I don't think a short affair almost thirty years ago is any of your business."

"Does Dana know?" There was threat in Skinner's words, controlled anger in his voice, and wounded pride in his face. I let myself smile as I watched. If Skinner thought he could control Mulder, I bet he was in for a surprise.

Then Mulder surprised me. "Yes, she knows, but she didn't see fit to inform me that you were the biological father of our children."

Skinner's expression did not change. It was frozen.

In the silence that followed, I could hear that the animals had gone quiet. Then I heard the sound of distant engines, a faint rumble underfoot, and a slight change in the light down the road.

"They're coming," I said.

We waited in the parking lot as a camouflage-painted procession of dark jeeps, closed personnel carriers, and vans rumbled down the highway and came to a stop in front of the street light. I looked at the way the vehicles rode on their suspension. Aside from two transports that were fully loaded, the other fifteen were empty. That was all I needed to know.

A small figure wearing black fatigues and no identification patches hopped out of the humvee in the front, dog trotted over to Skinner, and saluted.

"Reporting as ordered, sir."

"Nield?" said Mulder.

And who is this? I wondered, noting Mulder's anger. I looked at Johnson to see if she recognized the woman. Her mouth was drawn tight, and then the soldier said, "Agent Mulder, Agent Johnson. Good to be working with you again. I apologize for the deception." That was interesting. I was curious at what story lay behind it.

"Sir?" Mulder said, looking at Skinner, fury in every line of his body, but all he said was, "I thought you retired from the military thirty years ago."

"There are some organizations that you never quite leave."

"The SEALs?

"That, too." Skinner turned back to the woman. "Let's move out, Major."

MacLeod, Johnson and I turned toward the rental car.

"Major Nield has provided the transportation, gentlemen," Skinner said, indicating a partly covered, small personnel carrier. He walked over to the humvee and the soldier in the front moved to let him sit.

The three of us shared a glance. Johnson was as suspicious as we were. MacLeod gave his most insincere smile. "Why thank you. We'd be much obliged. Eryna?" he said, gesturing for Johnson to lead the way, but going ahead when she hung back, checking behind the canvas to make sure the back of the truck was empty. It contained only benches along the sides. We climbed up into the open space in the back, and took seats on the benches.

Mulder was last to enter the vehicle, and while it amused me to watch him try to sit with the sword he must be carrying under his coat, I did not let that amusement divert me for long. They had made a mistake in not separating us. As the engines began to rumble, I leaned in to MacLeod. "The transports are mostly empty."

He nodded. He knew. "I'll tell Eryna it's a go."

MacLeod passed the message with a look and a nod. I took out my cell phone.

"Radio silence, gentlemen," the woman said, leaning from the other side and reaching for my phone.

I held it out of her reach, thumbing the autodial to signal Hobbes. She pulled a pistol on me. I raised my eyebrows, waiting for the phone to ring once, and when it did, I pretended to concede. Mulder had his eyes closed, but Skinner watched, impassive. She took the phone, but did not replace her pistol.

We rode in silence for another ten minutes. The people, at least, were silent. The hybrid engines kicked in and out as we rumbled along the flat road. Whatever was in the compound had to know we were coming.

When the caravan pulled to a halt, Nield stood and gestured us out. I could see lights of what must be the compound not far up the road. Skinner joined us, seating himself on a folding chair that Nield produced from somewhere. Six armed soldiers and a humvee stayed with us, further confirming my suspicions. Nield went ahead with the convoy, and I watched Mulder watch her.

"Your girlfriend?" I asked. Mulder started at my voice. "You're going to have to do better than that if you're going to survive. Pay more attention, and don't relax. Don't trust anyone."

"Especially you?" He kept that sneering tone, but I could tell that he was unbalanced, unnerved.

"So who's the girl?"

"I thought she was an inept agent," Mulder said. "Not inept, maybe, but something was off." Then he seemed to realize in whom he'd chosen to confide, and a grim look crossed his face.

"Nothing what it seems, right?" I asked. "Don't know who to trust?"

He let his guard down for a moment, looking after the convoy, then back to Skinner. "Right."

"Welcome to our world."

He looked at me. "It's always like this?"

"It's usually a bit more straightforward. We fight. We kill. I'll admit that we're in the middle of an extreme case. From what my husband told me, you were once familiar with such things."

"Thanks in part to your husband, yes. You have no idea how many times he double- and triple-crossed me."

"I think I know. He killed me twice last week."

"So I learned from the best," Mulder said.

I did not correct him, keeping my own counsel as to who was the best.

"You know what we're planning, don't you?"

I nodded, once. "And I won't allow it. I'm rather attached to the idea of living."

"Krycek? What was his role in this."

"My guess is that he promised to deliver Kaos to Skinner for Immortality in return, but he tried an end run when he was sure I was Immortal, and tried to get it on his own. I can't imagine he trusted Skinner to keep his end of the bargain."

"That's what happened between you two. He wouldn’t tell me. How old are you?"

I turned my head in a half-negation. "Older than you."

"You're very old." He stated it as fact.

"They say age is all in the mind." I changed the subject. "Has MacLeod told you how the challenge works?"

"Yes. It would be stupid to challenge you, wouldn't it?"

"So you're simply going to kill me instead. That's what those military boys are for, isn't it?"

"That's the plan," Mulder said.

"And you're having second thoughts?"

"It seems you're not the only one Skinner tried to deceive."

"I'm going to kill you," I said.

"I know." Mulder turned away from me, and took Johnson aside. I looked at Skinner, who kept his face as impassive as the black-uniformed soldiers with their weapons at the ready.

MacLeod walked over to me. "What's going on? Something's going on with Mulder. I can feel something strong that I can't name."

"He doesn't want to face this life of ours."

"I can't believe that. I have some idea of what he's been through already. This can't be that much more difficult."

"When did he find out that his children were another man's get?"

MacLeod nodded, once. We'd all been through it, if we married mortals and they bore fruit. We knew at the time, not twenty years after.

I turned us away from Skinner's chair, pulling the gun as surreptitiously as I could and hiding it with my body as I turned. "Follow the rules, and don't interfere." I handed the gun to him, and he slipped it out of sight. "If the goons move, shoot them."

"Are you going to challenge him?"

"I have to."

"For you, or for Sasha?"

I looked at him, and thought hard, knowing that the connection across our Quickenings gave no true telepathy, but willing him to understand that my choices stemmed from the abomination of what they planned to do. Killing the man my husband loved was a pleasant side effect.

"There has to be another way. We can all three survive this," MacLeod said.

"You're the one with the connection to him," I said. "This is what he wants, and it guarantees that Skinner will lose."

I turned back to Mulder, who was finishing his conversation with Johnson. She looked more grim, if that were possible, and walked to take position behind Skinner.

"Mathias Bierce," I said, drawing my sword.

"Fox Mulder," he answered, pulling his own blade from his coat, but not yet practiced, not yet fluid. He would never have the chance to get the hang of it. "And that's not your real name."

"It will have to do."

"No," he said, lowering the sword. "It won't."

"Gentleman, I doubt this is the time, or place. If they cross swords," he said to the soldiers, "shoot them."

"Sir," said Johnson, "there are rules to the Game, and the first one is that you don't interfere."

"I'm not a member of their club, Agent Johnson, and neither are you." Skinner tilted his body slightly to address her over his shoulder.

"I suppose you could say I'm an adjunct."

"Yes, and after this, we're going to have to have a conversation about where your loyalties lie."

"My loyalties are to the people of this country and of the world." To his credit, Skinner did not move at the sound of the safety releasing, or the feel of Johnson's gun barrel on this temple. She spoke to the soldiers. "Shoot any of those three men, and I will kill him."

"Kill me and you will pay the price," Skinner said. "Work with me and--"

"Sir, my loyalties are to the people of this country and of the world," she repeated. "I will pay whatever price to protect them. What you're doing is wrong."

"In your opinion. I suppose now is not the time to argue your position," he said. "Stand down, men. Let's see how this plays out."

There was only one way it could play. Mulder had been Immortal for little over a week, and had only MacLeod's short tutelage in the sword. He had made a brave decision, and he would die with grace, if I could manage it. "My name is Methos," I said. I owed him that much. I heard Skinner grunt in surprise, but my name did not register as anything special with Mulder, and that pleased me.

I let Mulder test himself against me, but I never gave him false hope. Our fight moved like a sparring session in the _salle d'armes_ , with a foregone and fatal conclusion.

I heard a car on the road, and noted the lights, but having re-learned my lesson earlier, I did not look up. To his credit, Mulder stayed focused as well, even through the slam of a car door and footsteps, a woman's heels sounding incongruous at the edge of the swamp. It was the voice that betrayed him.

"Mulder!" a woman yelled. "What the hell is going on here?"

And he turned, his neck curved and exposed, and I took his head.

I looked at her as the body fell, a petite woman with gray streaks in her hair, shining in the moonlight. A mist made a pattern of crossed lines in a circle, and I readied myself for the Quickening. I never received it. She shot me in the chest, and I fell dead, watching fireworks burst in the air. Hobbes, I thought. Good timing.

~~~~~

The maelstrom to which I awoke was unlike any storm I've ever witnessed. I formed one eye of the typhoon, and MacLeod was the other center. Energy lanced back and forth between us, around us, in a twisting infinity that drove winds away from where we stood, whipping the palms and palmettos and bringing rain. I heard his voice in my ears and in my head, and the sensation was like the Quickening we shared in Bordeaux, magnified a thousand times. No, my analytical mind said, approximately three hundred and fifty times more intense, assuming seven hundred clones.

MacLeod caught my thought, and we were both surprised that I could think at all, much less do arithmetic. We laughed and screamed simultaneously, smelling the char of crisped vegetation and flesh.

There were hundreds of Quickenings, coming in waves and wavelets until at last the storm broke and MacLeod and I were left, panting in the wet saw grass.

We did what anyone would do under the circumstances. We blacked out.


	17. Wotan's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.

>   
>  _It is not written in the stars that I will always understand what is going on--a truism that I often find damnably annoying._   
>  Friday   
> 

 

We were surrounded by a ring of Watchers three deep when we recovered. They moved when we got to our feet, making a path that led to the road and a parked car. There were two figures in it. Agent Johnson got out of the passenger side. "Are you all right?" MacLeod asked her as I felt the same words rise in my own throat.

She nodded, but looked over to where Skinner had been sitting. Again, the wall of Watchers parted, and we could see the damage. The husk of a burnt body occupied the folding chair, which was barely recognizable as such. Of the soldiers, there was little but smoke and twisted weapons. I'd never seen a Quickening do anything like that, but there had never been a Quickening like what we experienced.

We looked at each other, MacLeod and I, then at the Watchers who stood around us and who moved beyond this burnt clearing stamping out the remaining fires. We walked over to the car, and Johnson moved to meet us.

Before we could ask, she said, "That's Dana Scully-Mulder."

"His wife." It was not clear to me whether MacLeod or I spoke. It didn't matter.

Johnson nodded.

"She shot me," I said.

"You _had_ just beheaded her husband." MacLeod sighed with the exhaustion that I, too, felt.

"You took his Quickening?" I asked him.

He nodded. "I can't feel it now."

"I'm sure." Each Quickening had a personality, quirks and side-effects before it fully settled. There was nothing. The aggregate of so many all at once smoothed out the usual edges, and Mulder must have been buried under all of that. I found myself possessed of a melancholy I could not explain. Then I looked at MacLeod again. It was his sentiment that I felt.

This was more than Bordeaux, and not just by a factor of three hundred and fifty.

"We have to separate," I said.

"What are you going to tell her?" MacLeod asked Johnson, ignoring what he must know I was feeling.

"The truth. She deserves that."

"You made it to the car?"

"It insulated us."

"Will it still run?"

"I don't know. Probably not. There are enough Watchers here and vehicles that we can help you three out of the swamp. Unless you'd like to wrestle another alligator, Methos?" she teased.

MacLeod and I both started at her humor, and then I could not help but smile as he said, "Joe warned me about you."

"Laugh in the face of death. That's my motto."

"Really?"

"No. Just today." She returned to her usual apparent calm, but now I could see what was underneath. I chalked _not getting to know Eryna Johnson better_ as another regret in my very long tally sheet.

"Tell Mrs. Mulder that he died well," I said. "That in the end, he sacrificed himself to stop this."

Johnson nodded. "I don't know what to tell her about Skinner."

"You said she deserved the truth."

"He's the biological father of her children."

"Oh," said MacLeod.

"He thought he was doing the right thing," I said. "Most people do. You can tell her that."

We were interrupted by a noise and a small wave of people, through which broke Bobby Hobbes.

"Well, Mr. Bierce, I think that went as well as could be expected. Your Watcher friends could do with a little training, but they hacked through every neck we could find. Looked like all Hell broke loose over here."

"It did," I said. "Mr. Hobbes, meet Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod, and Agent Eryna Johnson of the DCI. Eryna was Jim Gantt's partner."

"I'm sorry," Hobbes said, straightening. "I know what it's like to lose a partner."

"And we honor yours this night," I said. "Thank you for sharing his last gift."

MacLeod looked confused for all of a second, and then understood, as if he took the meaning from my mind. This was too like telepathy, and I had to get away from him. I hoped it would stop with distance and time.

"I have to go. Now. Please have someone take me out of here."

"Do you want to go to Miami or Fort Myers?" Johnson asked.

"Miami." It was bigger, and I would have more chances to lose myself.

We said our goodbyes then. I gave Betty's number to Mr. Hobbes and made him promise to call. I had arranged with her to pay him a handsome sum. I also thought they might amuse each other.

As I walked, led by one of the Watchers to where the cars were hidden, Mulder's wife ran up to me.

"You killed my husband! You cannot just walk away."

"I believe you exacted revenge with a fatal bullet wound to the heart," I said. "And I've lost a husband, thanks to yours. On balance, I think we're even."

"But you're not dead." I knew the hurt and pain in her eyes. I had seen it thousands of times. This time, I did not kill the complaining wife as well.

"You're wrong," I told her, "I _am_ dead."

And with that I turned, wiping the sweat and the makeup with the tail of my shirt, and walked away into the fitting mist that had begun to rise from the swamp--a cinematic close to a life I would remember as good.

Tomorrow I would be someone else.


End file.
